


Earth Helps Back

by NotASpaceAlien



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, rape tw
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-22
Updated: 2018-03-03
Packaged: 2019-03-22 08:58:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 33,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13760691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NotASpaceAlien/pseuds/NotASpaceAlien
Summary: When Aziraphale and Crowley finally receive punishment for trying to save the Earth, they find unexpected help from new allies who decide it’s time for Earth to repay the favour.





	1. A Dreadful Partnership

**Author's Note:**

> This story is a collaboration between me and nemeankitten! http://nemeankitten.tumblr.com If you like the art go show her some love!
> 
> On tumblr at http://not-a-space-alien.tumblr.com/post/171146244180/earth-helps-back-part-1-a-dreadful-partnership

 

 

 

Somewhere on Earth under the gentle light of a full moon, a huge, celestial figure swaddled in white robes and six pairs of wings waited.  Impatient is not exactly the right word to describe its stance, the shift of its feet, the way it peered at the treetops.  It was more…expectant.

The Metatron did not often come down from Heaven, but he had made a habit of never refusing a summons.

There was a sound nearby like a horde of locusts all taking to the air at once, the throbbing hum of a million pairs of tiny wings beating out of synch. Beelzebub materialised directly from the shadows, stepping over the brush to face the Metatron in the middle of the clearing.

Beelzebub’s hand rested on the scabbard of his sword.  The Metatron was armed with nothing more threatening than a rosary, but nonetheless the Voice of God looked unperturbed.  “You asked for a meeting?”

Beelzebub buzzed disgustingly.  Barely distinguishable in the half-light, his skin seemed to be moving faintly.

“We beg you to make this as fast as convenient,” the Metatron hummed.  “So we do not have to look at your repulsive face for longer than is necessary.”

“Fine,” Beelzebub snapped.  “If your conztitution izz really zo delicate.  I have a great need to dizcuzz what happened at the rebellion of my mazter’z zon, the boy Adam Young.”

The Metatron moved a hand to his veiled face, smiling politely.  “That’s not my jurisdiction, I’m afraid,” he said softly.  “Adam Young belongs to Hell.  We have no authority over him, beyond what is written in God’s plan about his role to play in Armag—”

“Yezz, I _know_ ,” Beelzebub said, and flinched to dislodge a fly crawling over his eye.  “It izz not about _him_ ; it izz about the two who aided him.”

The Metatron’s eyes narrowed.  “Ah, yes. Those two.”

“The one from our zide is a demon of temptation named Crowley,” offered Beelzebub.

“We know who they both are,” said the Metatron, face locked in a perpetual ghost of a smile.

Beelzebub sneered, revealing a cockroach that had been perching on his teeth. “If you know zzo much, then you muzt know why I azked you here?”

“Mmm, afraid not,” said the Metatron mildly.  “So if you could…?”

Beelzebub huffed in an annoyed way and plopped down on a log.  He took out his sword and started to wipe it down, despite the fact that it was not dirty.  In truth, he just wanted to avoid looking into the Metatron’s eyes. “Heaven and Hell are not azz different azz everyone likez to think, you know.”

“Nothing could be further from the truth,” said the Metatron, voice flat. “Heaven and Hell are as different as night and day.  One is pure, holy, and—”

“All right, all right,” said Beelzebub.  “Zpare me the grandiozze monologue.  I don’t care. My point izz, both of uz need order and obedienzze from our zubordinatezz to function.  And if we don’t have it, order will collapze.”  Beelzebub stopped polishing his sword and looked up at the Metatron.  “Or am I wrong about that too?”

The Metatron hesitated.  He did not want to agree with Beelzebub about anything, but he also did not want to lie.

“What happened at Armageddon waz the rezult of dizobedienze,” said Beelzebub. “Crowley and hiz angelic partner in crime threaten to turn the natural order on itz head.”

“I’d say Adam Young already did a pretty thorough job at that,” said the Metatron.

“They openly questioned uzz to our facezz, and with an audienzze!” Beelzebub said. “No demon in zix-thouzand yearz haz _ever_ had the audazity to do that to me.  Haz any angel?”

The Metatron was silent.

“We muzt ztamp thiz out az bezt az we can.  Get it under control before it goezz any further,” said Beelzebub.  “It will give otherz ideaz.  Neither Heaven nor Hell will profit from the collapzze of zupernatural order.  It’z true that Adam Young is the real culprit.  But we can’t touch him.  Leave him to our dark lord Zzz…Satan.”

“ _Your_ dark lord,” said the Metatron wryly.

“We can’t touch Adam Young, but we _can_ touch thoze two.  If we deal with them appropriately, it zhould give the otherz an idea about the conzequenzez of rebellion.  Get them properly zcared again.”

The Metatron crossed his arms.  “And you’ve called us here to discuss it because…why?  You want this to be a joint effort?”

“You muzt punizh the angel while I handle Crowley,” said Beelzebub.  “We can’t juzzt do one.  They feed off each other.  They help each other.”

“They do seem….inordinately fond of each other,” said Metatron.  “We _had_ noticed that.”

“There hazz been conzern it will make otherz in our rankz queztion the rulez,” said Beelzebub.  “And queztion their zzuperiorz.  On both zidez.  It would be mutually beneficial to ztamp it out together.  And…”  Beelzebub sheathed his sword and stood.  “I’m zzure you wouldn’t be averse to doling out a little perzonal attention to Aziraphale after what he did.  You muzt have been punizhed for failing to ztart Armageddon as inzztructed, correct?”

The Metatron’s eyes widened, and his face contorted into anger.  “How do you know about that?”

“Becauzze,” said Beelzebub, oozing forwards.  “I wazz alzo.”

The Metatron managed to return his face back to a blank mask.  “Maybe demons are motivated by things like the desire for petty revenge, but angels have no such inclination.”

Beelzebub smiled wickedly.  “Mmm-hmm. I am zzure.”  He took another step closer.  “But if you were to, zzay, punizh your zzubordinate, and if you were to, zzay, do it a little harder than ztrictly nezezzary, would anyone zay anything? Would anyone care?”

Metatron stared at him.

“Doez anyone really care what happenz to Aziraphale and Crowley?” said Beelzebub.

The Metatron thought very, very hard.  He had been uncomfortable with the state of affairs since having his understanding of the Ineffable Plan questioned at Armageddon, and he suddenly realised a very satisfying and clean way to stamp out the seed of rebellion he had sensed growing in Aziraphale.  “No…” he chimed.  “I suppose not.”

* * *

“I want to talk to Beelzebub.”

For what felt like the thousandth time that day, Crowley tugged at the manacles on his wrists, but he only succeeded in once again pulling the sharp metal to dig into his wrists.  He had been blindfolded since coming in and had no idea the circumstances of his confinement, but the other demons who had been assigned to torture him were doing a bang-up job of making him loathe every single thing he could _hear_.  

He was laid out on something cold and made of stone, and his arms were bent back and locked in a painful position, and that was basically all he knew.

“He wants to talk to Beelzebub,” said a snide voice.  This prompted titters of laughter from elsewhere in the room. Judging by the sounds alone, there had to be at least four other demons in the room with him.  The attention being paid to him made him more nervous than the eventuality of torture, in a way.

He wished he could at least see them.  He didn’t recognise their voices, but knowing their identities might have given him an edge in trying to talk his way out of this.  But no, they had gone straight for the damn blindfold.  

Crowley shifted, wishing they had at least let him keep his clothes on. “B-Beelzebub summoned me.  He said he needed to talk to me about something. I don’t think he’d be happy to f-find out you kept me from—”

He broke off as a hand seized him by the hair, dragging him forward until his arms hyperextended, chains taut.  He felt a warm hand on his stomach.

“If you think Beelzebub doesn’t know exactly where you are and what’s happening to you,” said the same voice, “then you’re even more foolish than you look.”

The hands released him, and he fell back onto whatever hard surface was underneath of him.  He tried to control his breathing, but he was starting to spiral into panic.  “He said he wanted to talk to me—”

“Obviously you are not familiar with the way Lord Beelzebub communicates,” said a second voice, which prompted another round of snickers from everyone in the room.

Crowley shifted again, struggling to find a position that minimised his discomfort.

He felt something sharp prickling at his lower back.  “S-stop that.”

“Lay him flat,” said a third voice.  “I have an idea.”

Ideas from Hell were never any good, in Crowley’s opinion, unless they were from Crowley himself.  However, Crowley doubted the idea happened to be _Unchain him and let him go immediately,_ which was the idea he currently thought was the only good one.

The chains shifted slightly, and a pair unseen hands forced him onto his back, pressed against the cool stone.

“Spread his legs.”

Crowley groaned as clawed hands dug into his thighs, pulling them apart. “W-wait,” he said, trying to kick out, but without much success.

He heard the sound of metal on stone, a fire igniting, and something sizzling.

“Oh _fuck_ ,” said Crowley, voice jumping up an octave.  “Wait wait wait _wait—_ ”

“I don’t think he likes the sound of that,” said one of the voices, and there were more laughs.

“There’s been a mistake somewhere, I know there has,” said Crowley as quickly as he could make his mouth form words.  “If I could just talk to Beelzebub I’m sure he’ll clear everything up. If you could just—there’s been a—He said he needed to talk to me urgently.”

“You’ll speak to Beelzebub in due time,” said another voice.  “But he’s a busy man.”

“We’ll take good care of you in the meantime,” said another voice, and a pair of hands pressed down on his shoulders, stifling his wriggling.

He heard the sound of hot metal again, and then a pair of footsteps coming closer to him.

“Fuck,” wept Crowley, “wait, please—”

As soon as he felt the scorching pressure between his legs, Crowley flailed and screamed and tried to break free, but the claws holding him down sunk in deeper.

All intelligent thought was scrambled in his brain, blotted out by the white-hot pain racking through him.  The metal pushed in deeper, slowly, like a vicious simulacrum of a gentle lover.

Crowley thrashed to the very limit of his physical capability.  “Please!  Stop!”

“Aww, stop?” said a voice.  “But we’re just getting started.  We have _so_ many fun things planned for you.”

* * *

Crowley had excused himself partway through the evening, saying he had an urgent message from his higher-ups that he should probably see to, though somebody knows how much he’d _rather_ stay here drinking, but you can only ignore them for so long, you know—

Aziraphale bade him good night, then went upstairs to find his own urgent summons from Heaven on his desk almost simultaneously.  The parchment sent an ominous feeling through his stomach, but he ignored it, because lying to himself about his feelings was one of the things Aziraphale did best.

Sure that everything was going to be fine, he went up to Heaven as commanded. He found the Metatron waiting for him exactly where indicated.

The Metatron smiled at him as he came into sight.  “Aziraphale,” he said softly.  “Good to see you.  Thank you for coming up so quickly.”

“Of course,” said Aziraphale.  He really did feel a rising sense of unease like a tidal wave beating over him, telling him he ought to run, but once again he forced it down.

“Please follow us,” said the Metatron.  “There’s something very important we need to talk about.”

“All right,” said Aziraphale.

The Metatron led him through Heaven, beating his wings gracefully, moving almost completely silently.  Aziraphale desperately wanted to ask for details of what this encounter was about, but he was thinking back now to the last time he had spoken to the Metatron and thought he probably shouldn’t do anything else to get on his bad side.

The Metatron didn’t seem particularly upset with him.  But then again, it was rare for the Metatron to seem particularly feeling any way about anything.

Aziraphale soon found himself escorted into a plain white room with a plush couch.  The door disappeared behind him as he entered.

The Metatron extended one hand and motioned to the couch.  “Please lie down, Aziraphale.”

“O-okay,” said Aziraphale, trying to keep the nervousness out of his voice.

He lay back on the couch.  Immediately, the Metatron’s aura surged outwards, and Aziraphale’s entire corporation went slack, his head lolling.  To his supreme alarm, he could not re-engage any of the connections to his body.

He lay there completely paralyzed, feeling the Metatron’s aura rolling over him, prodding and examining him like a pinned insect.

Aziraphale’s body continued breathing on its own.  His eyes were the only thing he could move, and they flew around the room wildly, but all he could see was the ceiling, bright and harsh. He tried again to take control of his limbs, but he slid right off where he had been previously been able to connect to them, as though he were clawing at a newly closed door with no knob.

Slowly, the Metatron’s half-obscured face moved into his field of vision, smiling that polite smile.  “Tell me something, Aziraphale,” he said, and fresh horror washed over Aziraphale as he felt the Metatron’s aura constricting his like a snake.  “What exactly compelled you to talk back and humiliate me in front of Beelzebub?  In front of the Antichrist?  In front of Heaven’s legions?”

Aziraphale, of course, could not answer.  The Metatron’s lip twitched in what might have approached a laugh, if the Metatron had had any sense of humour.  “I’m sorry.  I was just curious.  But I suppose curiosity doesn’t have much use in the grand scheme of things, does it?”

Aziraphale felt the Metatron’s icy aural fingers prying into his corporation. He retreated deeper inside himself, withdrawing his angelic essence from his body’s extremities, balling up in his core, shrinking away from the invasion.

He felt the Metatron’s presence in his body, pressing against him, and he tried to pull away, to regain some sense of autonomy.  But the Metatron tapped at his metaphysical form with one tendril of glowing aura, and there was nowhere to retreat.

 _Tell me, Aziraphale,_ said the Metatron.  Or rather thought at him, because now Aziraphale was disconnected from his body’s senses and he couldn’t see nor hear the Metatron’s physical form, only the part of it that was intruding on him.   _Did you forget that there are consequences for your actions?  Have you forgotten exactly what kind of power I have over you?  Do you think you can do whatever you please without suffering for it?_

Aziraphale bounced back and forth between the edges of the corporation, but Metatron was blocking the way out of it.  And Aziraphale felt sharp, cold hands stick in his mind, grabbing him.

Out of all the possible thoughts that could have drifted to the surface of his mind, Aziraphale was a bit surprised at the one that materialised.  It was, _Crowley would never do anything this horrible to me._

The Metatron, appendages wrapped around Aziraphale like a spider, seized the thought and tore it out from him.

The action sent a chill of white-hot pain through Aziraphale, and he pulsed and tried to cry out, but the only outlet to express his agony was his communication link with the Metatron, who of course already knew.

 _Go on_ , said the Metatron.   _What were you saying?_

Where Aziraphale’s last thought should have been, there now seemed to be a gaping hole.  He could feel the Metatron absorbing the bit of glowing aura he had just torn off Aziraphale, the thought sinking down, lost forever.

 _What…what are you going to do to me?_ Aziraphale asked.

He braced himself, cowering, stuck in place, as he felt the Metatron rifling through his conscious mind, like ungentle hands dumping out the contents of a desk.   _Oh, I’m simply going to remove everything I find that’s inappropriate for an angel in your position._

_Wh…what?_

_I hardly think anyone would deny it’s best for the Heavenly Kingdom,_ said Metatron.   _And if it just so happens to cause you a bit more suffering than strictly necessary, well…that’s what it means to be a servant of Heaven, yes?  Suffering cleanses the soul._

_What are you talking about?_

Aziraphale tried to pull away again as the Metatron went deeper, pinning him to the wall and forcefully tearing out the memory of drinking with Crowley just before coming up to Heaven.

 _You’re a piece in a well-oiled machine, Aziraphale_ , said the Metatron, with another yank at Aziraphale’s essence.   _You’d do well to remember that.  Anything that is not useful will be…burned away._

Aziraphale whimpered as he felt the Metatron tearing out huge swathes of his memories, his personality, his will.  

 _Please no,_ said Aziraphale _. Please…_

He yelped as he felt a particularly precious memory yanked away, the time he and Crowley got drunk in the back room and Crowley convinced Aziraphale to try and stop Armageddon through reminders of sushi and snuffboxes.

 _I don’t want to forget him,_ said Aziraphale, absolutely panic-stricken, feeling everything about who he was slipping away like sand through a sieve.   _I don’t want to forget about loving the Earth.  Please._ _Mercy._

 _Oh, you’ll remember_ , said the Metatron, and no one in history had ever heard his voice drip with such dark, sadistic delight.   _You’ll remember that you used to be close with him, and you’ll remember how much you used to enjoy Earth, but you won’t remember why.  And you’ll remember just enough to feel sad about it._

* * *

The next few weeks passed as a blur for Aziraphale.  He had no conception of the time passing or where he was, in a fog until he looked around and hazily noticed that he was standing at the gates of Heaven, with no memory of how he had gotten there.

A pair of crossed arms draped in ropes blocked his gaze.  His eyes drifted upwards until he saw the Metatron’s face, looking at him expectantly, as though waiting for an answer.

Aziraphale let his eyes wander all around.  He was trying very hard not to cry.  He was trying very hard to remember one single coherent thing about himself. There was a ragged hole where he thought his personality was supposed to be, as though he were an electronic device that had been factory-reset.

“Well?” the Metatron finally prompted after a few moments.

Aziraphale let his gaze drift back up to the Metatron, feeling completely lost, adrift at sea in a rowboat without a paddle.

The Metatron bent down to force Aziraphale to look into his eyes.  “Have we made our point effectively, Aziraphale?” he said gently.

Aziraphale returned the stare blankly.  His eyes started to rove again.  The Metatron snapped his fingers in front of his face and said, “No, look over here.”

Aziraphale did so.

“We will repeat ourselves,” said the Metatron.  “You will contact the demon Crowley one more time, to tell him that you will not talk to him anymore, and after that, he will be a target to kill on sight.  Additionally, you are not to eat anything besides daily bread or drink anything other than communion wine.  And you’ll be summoned here for another visit if your devotion to your angelic duties does not show marked improvement.  You are to purge all Earthly attachments.  Do you understand?”

“B-but…” said Aziraphale, the protest dying halfway between his brain and his mouth.  He couldn’t remember what he would miss by following those orders.

Metatron let his face slip into a scowl.  “Earth is not for your _enjoyment_ , Aziraphale.  You are not there to _enjoy_ it.  Demons are not there for you to _befriend._  Humans are not there to be friends with you, either.  You are a servant.  That’s all you are.  That’s all you’ll ever be.  Now.   _Do you understand?_ ”

Aziraphale nodded, eyes safely on the ground.

“Good.  Now return to your post.”

Aziraphale spread his wings and drifted back down towards Earth.  The action caused none of the feelings of homecoming that it usually did, but Aziraphale couldn’t place what was off. He just felt a certain hollowness in his chest.

* * *

Crowley lost track of any sense of time.  All demons know how to handle torture as a general rule, since it comes with the job, but this was unlike anything that had been done to him before. He was sure they must not have been aware of the full effect of what they were doing, because surely not even _Hell_ would inflict this kind of agony on anyone knowingly, in so many different ways, and for such a length of time.

Crowley had been tortured before, but he had never, ever sincerely wished that he could die, never in his life before this.

The thing about being immortal is that you cannot die even if you want to. And certain causes of death, when brought about without the actual _death_ at the end as a release, will simply drag on and on in a stasis, unable to be resolved, teetering on an unnatural boundary just before death, but unable to cross over.

For example, a being who can technically survive without breathing, but for whom holding their breath eventually does become painful all the same due to the sheer physiological needs of their vessel, could be held suspended at the threshold of drowning for a theoretically infinite duration.

Or for however many weeks, months, or years one’s captors deemed appropriate.

Beelzebub strolled down Hell’s dark stone hallways, feeling an immense sense of satisfaction in his work and the work of his underlings.  The sound of water lapping against a cave wall grew louder and louder as he moved.

His boots clacked against the stone as he reached his destination. A pit filled with water lay in front of him, and a simple line of rope drew up from it to a hook in the ceiling, which connected to a winch right by his foot.

Beelzebub just stood there for a moment, basking in the dingy environment and listening to the cold water dripping and slapping against the stone.

Finally, he turned the hand crank on the winch, and the rope started to draw up slowly.  Eventually, the end of the rope appeared, tied to a pair of bruised wrists.

Beelzebub let his victim rest like that for a few moments, with just his arms above the water, air so close and yet so infuriatingly impossible to reach. The hands started making a grabbing motion, and the rope shuddered with tension as the weight it held moved around.

Beelzebub relented and turned the winch the rest of the way.  Crowley’s head appeared above water, dark hair plastered down his face, and he immediately retched violently, body shaking with the effort of clearing his lungs, vomiting water and then desperately sucking in huge gulps of air.

Beelzebub squatted down so that he could lock eyes with Crowley, who was still chest-deep in water.  Crowley’s golden eyes, filled with fear, flickered up to his superior’s face.

“Have you learned your lezzon?” said Beelzebub.  He smiled, and a fly crawled over his lips.

Shivering and heaving, Crowley looked down at Beelzebub’s feet.

Beelzebub frowned.  “Crowley. Anzwer me.”

“Yes,” Crowley said quietly.

Beelzebub’s frown deepened.  He put his hand on the winch and started to lower it back down.

Crowley immediately came to life, thrashing and screaming.  “Yes!  Yes! Fuck!   _Yes!_ ”

Satisfied, Beelzebub turned the winch all the way up so that Crowley’s body came up all the way out of the water.  The weight that had been tied to his legs to hold him down came up next, and Beelzebub grabbed it and dragged him over onto solid ground, untying him.

Crowley shuddered, trying to stand on his own and failing miserably. Beelzebub grabbed his arm tightly, layering another bruise on top of his already impressive collection.  The bigger demon hauled him up, then leaned right into his face.

“Do not queztion me again.  Do not dizobey Hell.  Do not even think about humiliating me like that ever again.”

“Yesss,” panted Crowley, head resting on the wall, feeling utterly drained like he had never had before.  “Yesss. Pleassse.  Anything.”

Beelzebub held out a small scroll.  “Here are your inztructionz.  Now get out of my zzight before I change my mind.”

Crowley took the scroll and staggered out as fast as he could.

* * *

_1._ _The only contact you will have with the angel Aziraphale will be aggressive in nature.  You are to kill him if the opportunity presents itself._

_2._ _You are not allowed to sleep._

_3._ _You are not allowed to eat or drink anything other than water._

_4._ _You are not allowed to engage in sexual activity with others or to masturbate, and you are not allowed to manifest genitals, except when it is necessary for a mission given to you by a direct superior._

_5._ _All activities you carry out while on Earth will be directly for the advancement of the Kingdom of Darkness.  You must provide accountability and justification for all activities.  You will be monitored periodically to ensure your reports are accurate.  Your use of miracles is being monitored and you will be required to provide a written justification for each use and how it contributes to your current project for the glory of our Dark Master, Lord Satan._

_Failure to follow these guidelines will result in another visit to Hell to answer for your motivations._

Those were the contents of the scroll.  It seemed like an awful lot of words to say _If you try to do anything for enjoyment, I’ll beat the shite out of you._

Crowley’s immediate instinct was to grab a bottle of wine and get smashed as fast as inhumanly possible.  The irony was not lost on him.

He managed to claw his way back up to Earth at three in the morning, smelling of brimstone and blood and looking like literal and metaphorical Hell.  The only humans he saw were a couple who rushed to cross to the other side of the street when he limped into view.

He wanted to go back to his flat, but he was afraid whoever was monitoring him would take issue with him having even that modicum of comfort.

So he just stood there on the dark street, wishing that it was raining so he could tell himself these weren’t tears on his face.  He slipped his mobile out of his pocket and dialed Aziraphale’s number.

“Hello?” answered a voice, sounding faint and vague in an unfamiliar way.

“Angel,” said Crowley softly.  He was shocked by how hoarse his own voice came out and realised dully it must have been from all the screaming.

“Oh, hello,” said Aziraphale foggily.  “I haven’t seen you in a while.”

“Been in Hell.”

“They only let you out just now?”

“Yeah.”  The tears dripped from his chin.  “Aziraphale, I think it’d be best if…i-if we didn’t see each other again.”

There was a very long pause on the other end.  Then:  “I think so too.”

“So,” said Crowley.  “That’s it, then?”

“I’m afraid so.”

Crowley sniffled and was about to hang up, then put the phone back to his face. “For what it’s worth…”

“Yes?”

“I liked it.  Our arrangement.  It was good.”

“Likewise,” Aziraphale choked out.  He just barely managed to resist adding _my dear_ on the end in case the Metatron was listening, as though his voice wasn’t thick with sadness, as though it wasn’t damn obvious to anyone listening what his feelings were.

“I…had fun,” said Crowley.  “I mean, I thought it was nice.  Being friends.”

“You think we were friends?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

“You think people like us can do that?  Have friends?  Real friends?”

Crowley looked up at the sky.  He didn’t think he had any tears left.  He had put on a blank, emotionless mask.  “No…I suppose not.”

He pulled the phone down, when he remembered the wording of his instructions. _Aggressive in nature._

He put it back to his face and said, “I’ll kill you if—”

The phone was already on a dial tone.  He was glad Aziraphale hadn’t heard that part.  And he hung up, tossed the phone onto the sidewalk, and walked off into the night.


	2. Memories, Lost and Never Held

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Normally I like to take the time to respond to individual comments, but in this case it would have just been "ahhhhh thanks!!" to everyone. Know that i read and cherished each comment on the last chapter, and the urgency of your commentary motivated me to post much more quickly after chapter 1 than I usually do.....Hope you like it!!
> 
> On tumblr at http://not-a-space-alien.tumblr.com/post/171182253580/earth-helps-back-part-2-memories-lost-and

Newt had gotten a raise recently, which was good because the rent on his flat had gone up with the addition of a second person on the lease.

He had felt guilty moving Anathema out of such a nice cottage, but there was no way he could commute all the way to work from Tadfield, and he didn’t think he’d be able to find much work in the village.  Anathema hadn’t seemed overly disappointed at the suggestion that they live together in the city—he thought maybe she had gotten tired of exactly how _boring_ the country can be sometimes.  One of her friends, Adam Young, seemed to be the only real thing of interest in that place, and they had fallen out of contact.  Newt thought he had probably gone off to university by now, and more and more Anathema seemed to be self-conscious of being friends with a boy so much younger than her, especially since she couldn’t seem to remember exactly _how_ or _why_ that had happened.

She vaguely remembered that she had come to Tadfield because of something happening with the leylines, but they were all back to normal now, and nothing very occultly interesting seemed evident there any longer.  Frankly, Newt suspected something had happened there one Saturday and he couldn’t remember it, because he couldn’t even remember how he and his current girlfriend had met.  Wouldn’t that be something to tell your kids and grandkids?

“Grandpa, how did you and grandma meet?”

“Well, little Jimmy, neither of us can seem to remember.  But it’s probably nothing to worry about!  We might have just had our memories tampered with by supernatural forces.  Another biscuit?”

Absurd.  Anathema was much better at this whole occult thing than he was.  He had quit the Witchfinders as soon as he realised exactly how in-over-his-head actual occult shenanigans made him feel.  Meddling with the supernatural was all well and good until you found out it was actually real.  He had found his witch, so as far as he was concerned, his job was over. His title wasn’t _witch-burner,_ after all.

He felt less guilty about abandoning the Witchfinders because Shadwell had retired immediately afterwards.  It was a bit like abandoning a cranky old dog that bites people for no reason, but who doesn’t have anyone to look out for it.  It was a relief that Madam Tracy had done it.  She’d make sure he ate things other than condensed milk and maybe, just maybe, she could convince him to brush his teeth occasionally.

Not being able to remember niggled at Newt a little bit, but in the end he felt quite all right leaving all the supernatural stuff to Anathema now.  As long as it didn’t show up on his doorstep and bother him, he was fine with it existing out there, away from him.

Besides… Anathema had only been renting the cottage.  It was more economical to share Newt’s flat.  Newt had been a little surprised to learn that Anathema earned enough money doing occult things like tarot readings and custom spells to avoid having to work a full-time job.  Well, that and she had a savings account from her ancestors, the ones who had foreseen the stock market and such.  Being a professional descendant had more perks than just an old book of prophecies, apparently.

Newt usually came home from work to the smell of the crockpot, and he could never guess whether it was supposed to be for supper or a spell.  He had accidentally tasted a concoction meant for scrying once.  It had tasted like ginger.

He had been doing something else with the extra money from his raise, too. He had been putting it aside, and he had just blown it all at a jewelry store, and now he was on his way home with a velvet box burning a hole in his pocket.

He hadn’t picked a very expensive ring; he knew Anathema didn’t appreciate extravagance, and if he had sprung for any of those multi-thousand dollars pieces, her first question after slipping it on would have been a slightly disappointed _How much did this cost?_  

She had a bit of a different understanding of politeness sometimes.

No, he had gotten a reasonably-priced one, but one that she would still love.  And he had made sure it had gemstones from ethical sources, because he knew she cared about that sort of thing also, and they had just watched _Blood Diamond_ recently and all.

It had a sapphire instead of a diamond, which was perfect because not only was sapphire Anathema’s birth stone, but it also seemed to be a gemstone she liked to use for crystal healing and whatnot.  He didn’t think the ring would have much practical use on that front, but it seemed like something she would like.

If Newt could only work up the nerve to ask.  He hadn’t thought of a good way yet.  Anathema deserved something really special.

He had been half-afraid that Anathema might take the initiative and propose to _him._  She didn’t believe in nonsense like traditional gender roles, she had told him.  Newt had been slightly horrified, because he had been daydreaming of how nice it would be to get down on one knee and see her surprised and delighted face.  And his mother would never let him hear the end of it if she found out their roles had been reversed.

Cutting your hair short was fine and all, but no, Newt thought he would rather do it the traditional way on this one.

The thought had set off a chain reaction, and now here Newt was, on his doorstep, fingering the velvet box, trying to resist the urge to just barge in and do it now.  He had no idea how he had gotten lucky enough that someone like Anathema would be interested in him, and he was afraid that at any second she might change her mind and decide to leave.

He turned the doorknob and entered.

As soon as he did, be-socked footsteps pattered rapidly towards him, and Anathema flew around the corner, hair in disarray, looking far more excited than usual.  The house smelled like sage and, once again, Newt couldn’t tell if it was a spell or a meal.

Anathema threw herself at him, hugging him.  “I did it!  Newt, I finally did it!”

“That’s great!” said Newt, removing his hand from the ring box in his pocket to twirl her.  “That’s awesome!  I knew you could do it!”

He set her down, and she dashed back into the living room.

“What did you do?” Newt called after her.

“The spell!  I got it to work!”

Newt followed her down the hallway.  In the living room, all the chairs and rugs had been pushed out of the way, and a circle laced with very complex symbols had been chalked onto the floor.  A gaggle of crystals and miscellaneous goo littered the floor at seemingly arbitrary spots.  She stood in the circle, vibrating with excitement.

Newt perched on the armrest of the easy chair that had been pushed against the wall.  “Tell me all about it.  Which one’s this?”

“It’s—it’s—”  She broke off, waving her arms, seemingly too excited to go on.  “The one I was telling you about!”

“Which one?  The one you were working on yesterday?”

“No, no!  The—” She knelt down and started gesturing to the sigils, which she knew full well Newt couldn’t read.  “The memory spell!”

“The…Oh!  That one.”

“Yes!”

“‘To gain memories lost or never held.’  Was that it?”

“Yes!”  She gave a little jump.  “I got it to work!”

“That’s great!”  He leaned forwards.  “So, what did you remember?”

“How we met!”  Her eyes shined with mischief.  “I remember _everything,_ Newt.”

“Great!” said Newt.  “Wow! Let’s hear it.”

“We stopped the apocalypse, Newt.  You and I, together.”

Newt pursed his lips.  “Mmm….that doesn’t sound like something I would do.”

“You did it by breaking a computer.”

Newt grimaced.  “Mmm... Okay, maybe that _does_ sound like…”

Anathema pulled up a chair and sat on it, then edged forwards to lean in. “The four horsemen were there.”

“What!”

“Yep, and they were fiddling with something on a computer, and something about missiles.  You managed to shut it down.  We used Agnes’s book.  And…and now I remember how it got burned!  There was a demon…”

That didn’t sound like good news to Newt.  Anathema had been quite upset that _The Nice and Accurate Prophecies_ had been burned to a crisp, and Newt didn’t feel like fighting a demon for retribution if it had been the thing to damage the book.

“They’re _real_ , Newt,” said Anathema, sounding absolutely enthralled.  “Angels and demons.”

“Wait a minute,” said Newt.  “You’re a practicing witch—”

“Occultist.”

“You’re a practicing occultist, but you didn’t believe in angels and demons?”

“Well, I—I, of course I _believed_ in them, but it’s quite different to find out that you _met_ one, you know?  Or two as the case may be.  One of each.”

Newt put his chin on his hand.  “And what exactly were they doing there?”

“Trying to stop the apocalypse too.”

“Really?  An angel and a demon?  The angel I could understand—that’d probably be its job.  But a demon?  Are you sure that’s what it was doing?”

“That’s the thing, Newt!” said Anathema.  “They weren’t _supposed_ to be there.  Their superiors _wanted_ the apocalypse to happen. Both Heaven and Hell.  And those two talked circles around them to confuse them and delay it.  It was…kind of funny, actually.”

“So it must have been them who erased our memories, then?”

Here Anathema leaned back, looking much less amused now.  “No.  That was Adam, actually.”

“ _What?_ How could _he_ have done something like that?”

“I don’t remember exactly, but he was there, too.  He’s a very powerful supernatural entity, I think.  Think he might have been the antichrist.”

Newt crossed his arms.  “I know he got into trouble sometimes, Anathema, but you don’t have to exaggerate.”

“No, I mean the _literal_ antichrist, Newt.”

“And he...made us forget?”

“No, not forget.  Well, but not exactly remember, either…”  Anathema pursed her lips.  “And here I thought him and I were friends…Why would he do something like that? Make us forget?  I…”

“Well,” said Newt.  “Probably best not let him know you remember now, right?  He might do it again.”

“Yeah…” said Anathema.  She got up and walked towards the chalk circle, beginning to sweep things back up. “I’m…I’m not really sure what to do with this information, to be honest.”

“How did you finally get it to work?” said Newt.  “You struggled with that spell on and off for years.”

“I burned one of the pages from the Prophecies.”

“What?”

Anathema knelt and collected some black candles, piling them in her arms.  “The spell requires an object imbued with energy associated with whatever you’re trying to summon information about.  I fed it the page that had most of the prophecies about Armageddon on it.  Or what was left of the page, anyway…”

Newt was surprised Anathema would destroy parts of the book like that.  She had gone mad trying to preserve the damaged volume after getting it back.  “You wanted to know that badly?”

“Yes,” said Anathema.  “And it’s not like the _Nice and Accurate Prophecies_ is much use anymore, is it?  I mean, since they’ve already happened…”

Newt got up out of the chair and helped her pile the incense back onto the table.  “So, what are you going to do now?  That was kind of the top of your bucket list.”

“Well,” said Anathema.  She dumped all the paraphernalia onto the table and looked off into the distance. “I mean, now I know how to get this spell to work.  I guess I could do whatever I _wanted_ with it.  It seems like a pretty powerful spell.”

“Everyone watch out, Anathema is going to rule the world,” Newt teased.

“No, I’m serious!  Think about it!  The spell is for memories lost, _or never held._  As long as someone, somewhere, knew something or knows something, I could get that same knowledge with just an object that they’ve used, or something from their person…”

“You could learn _anything?_ ” said Newt.

“Theoretically!” said Anathema.  She turned and started sweeping up the chalk circle.  “Today it conveyed a _lot_ of information to me.  I wonder what the limit is on how much it’ll tell me at once.  How many gigabytes of data, so to speak.”

“Well then, I guess the question is, what do you want to know about?”

Anathema stopped sweeping.  She stared out the window.  Then, she turned back to Newt and said, in a very excited voice, “I want to learn about angels and demons.”

Newt clapped.  “Well, there you go!”

“Think about it, Newt!” said Anathema, bubbling with enthusiasm. “Those two—those two that helped us at Armageddon—think about what kinds of experiences they must have.  They’re _completely different_ types of beings than we are.  And we can—talk to them—hear all about how they see the world and everything they've seen and…”  She shook the broom.  “I want to jump with joy just thinking about it.  It’s like first contact.”  She shot up ramrod straight and yelled at the top of her lungs, “The feathers!”

“What?” said Newt, alarmed.

She threw the broom on the ground, knelt, and began re-drawing the chalk circle. “Newt, I—I have two huge feathers saved in a bag marked with the word _angel feathers_ and ten question marks.  It was from _them._  I must have picked up some feathers that fell from their wings thinking it would be useful for spellwork, but then when Adam erased my memory, I forgot where they had come from.  And—Newt, I can use them to do this spell!  I can learn all about—Let me go get them.”

Newt pressed to the wall to get out of her way, afraid she would trample him in her excitement.  She came back a few moments later with a gallon plastic bag with two huge white feathers inside.

“Those are angel feathers?” said Newt, leaning in with fascination as Anathema pulled them out.

“I think so!”

“I didn’t expect them to be quite so…I dunno.  Solid?  They’re ethereal, aren’t they?”

Anathema scuttled about the room to replace all the incense and candles she had just bundled up.  “They had physical wings.  I remember them.”

“No!”

“You wouldn’t be able to take feathers from them if they didn’t!”

Newt examined the two feathers.  The shafts were as thick as pencils, both white, with fuzzy down near the tip.  “Are they both from the angel?  I would have thought the demon’s would look different.”

“Nope,” said Anathema, putting the final touches on the circle.  “Their wings were exactly the same.  Except the angel’s seemed a bit messier…  Newt, get the lights, would you?”

“You’re going to do it right now?”

“Yeah!  I can’t wait.  Newt, do you think if we could call them up, they’d let me have some more feathers for spell work?”

Newt smiled at her.  He loved anything that got her this excited.  “I suppose we could ask them.”

She dimmed the lights, then ran back over to the circle and held the two feathers pinched between her fingers above one of the black candles.  “Ready?” she said mischievously.

Newt, who was sitting in the easy chair, not participating, and thus didn’t need to be ready for anything, gave her a thumbs-up.

Anathema lowered the two feathers into the candle’s flame and allowed them to catch fire, then dropped them into a pile of dry tinder placed strategically at the head of the circle, where the lines of power radiated from.  The chalk lines began to glow faintly.

Anathema’s entire body went rigid, and her eyes looked glassy as she stared into the fire.

“A-Anathema?” said Newt nervously.  “Are you all right?”

After a few moments, she gasped and came back to life.  “Newt, I—I see them!”

“Yeah?”

“It’s…This is wonderful.  They…” She smiled so big Newt’s heart almost melted.  “They’re…wonderful.  Newt, they did this for _us_.  They broke away to save the Earth because they loved it.”

Slowly, her smile began to fade.

“What?” said Newt.  “What’s the matter?”

She looked from the flames to the ceiling and back to Newt with growing horror.

Newt got up and knelt beside her.  He had never seen her look so disturbed.  “What?  What’s wrong?”

“We…”  Her voice sounded haunted.  “We have to help them.”


	3. Newfound Old Friends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On tumblr at http://not-a-space-alien.tumblr.com/post/171239625075/earth-helps-back-part-3-newfound-old-friends

 

It’s hard to describe the effect of not knowing anything about someone and then suddenly having an encyclopedia’s worth of knowledge about them dumped into your head.  Anathema had been granted memories that were not hers, but they were in the past, they were _memories._  So when they dropped into her, it felt as though she had always known everything she currently did.

As a consequence, Anathema in that moment felt rather like Aziraphale and Crowley were very close friends that she had known for a long time.

It’s kind of the business of witches to know things they’re not supposed to, but this was a step above and beyond what Anathema usually dealt with. The sudden rush of having memories spanning back millennia felt like it physically knocked the wind out of her.

She remembered the Garden, the apple, she remembered ancient Egypt and Mesopotamia and Greece and Rome and Jerusalem, a wealth of places and times she had never been, people she had never met and experiences she had never had.

She remembered the Arrangement.  She remembered what it had felt like to shake hands with your supposed mortal enemy and feel a great deal more fondness than you were supposed to.  She remembered what it had felt like to realise so grippingly and suddenly that the world was going to _end_ by the hands of your own comrades unless you did something to stop it, _you,_ who were virtually powerless against the powers-that-be, but you had to _try_ nonetheless.  She remembered the—was it fair to call it love?—that they felt, for the Earth and for the humans and for each other, and the tightness with which they had gripped each other’s warm hands when they thought they were about to die, or whatever ghastly equivalent would be waiting for them in place of death.

_We have to try_ was the theme.   _We can’t do it, but we have to try._

And they had _won._  The Earth was safe.

And then their victory had been torn out from under them.

Anathema’s excitement grew as she saw these two beautiful beings built from the ground up in her memory, vibrant and full of life and kindness and so ready to try.  And then it had all been smashed to pieces, because the memories that came flooding into her past a certain timepoint had taken a sharp downturn.

Darkness.  Or blinding light.  Pain, never-ending pain, and crying and begging and absolute helplessness.  The feeling of being forcibly stripped of any personal autonomy you had managed to scrape out for yourself.

Regret.  

And then pushing on in a muddle of grey, utterly miserable, without reprieve, on and on.

She was snapped out of her trance by Newt kneeling beside her.  “What’s wrong?”

“We…”  Anathema staggered to her feet, knocking over a few candles.  “We have to help them.”

“Who?” said Newt.  “The angel and the demon?”

“Their names are Aziraphale and Crowley, and…”  Her head was spinning.  She didn’t even know where to begin.

“Help them with what?”

“Newt, it’s awful, I _felt…_ ”

Newt came up and supported her elbow, because she looked a bit wobbly. “What?”

“They were punished, Newt.  For trying to help us.”

“Oh,” said Newt.  “Oh no.” He scratched his head.  “By Heaven and Hell, you mean?  Their bosses?”

“It must have been.  Oh, Newt…”

“That bad, huh?”

“Yes.  Come on.” Anathema dashed over to the coat rack and started pulling on her peacoat.

“Wh—What, wait, where are we going?”

“To go help them!”

“You’re not serious, are you?”

“What?” said Anathema, pausing with her arm halfway in the sleeve.  “Of course I’m serious.  They’re in trouble.”

“Well, it’s not like there’s anything _we_ can really do about that, though, right?”

“Wh—Nothing we can do?  Imagine if _they_ had had that attitude when the apocalypse was about to happen!”

“Well, I-I mean…”  Newt rubbed the back of his head.  “It’s not really any of our business, is it—I mean, it’s one thing to think maybe you can phone them up and ask for some feathers, but we can’t really go against—”

“They risked _everything_ for us!  And you don’t even want to try?”

“It’s not that I don’t _want_ to try!” said Newt.  “I’m just saying I don’t see what we’re really _capable_ of doing.”

Anathema became self-aware and finished pulling her coat on, buttoning it up angrily.  “You know what, Newt?  You were right.  Trying to stop the apocalypse really _doesn’t_ sound like something you’d do.  Fine, then, stay here.  See if I care.  I’ll go by myself.”

“Oh, come on,” said Newt.  “Wait, hold on.”

Aggravated, Anathema turned and crossed her arms.

“I’m not saying we shouldn’t help them.  Really, I’m not.  But they’re—they’re other-worldly beings with powers we can’t even comprehend.  We must look like mice to them.  It’s unrealistic to expect _you_ can take on whatever managed to best _them,_ don’t you think?”

Anathema flared her nostrils.  Newt took her hands.  “I just don’t want to see you get hurt, Anathema.”

“You didn’t see what they were like before,” said Anathema.  “You don’t know them.”

“Neither do you!” Newt exclaimed.  “Just this morning you weren’t sure they existed!”

Anathema suddenly regretting not having Newt join her in the circle.  He hadn’t seen it and couldn’t imagine what she knew.  There was no way to explain it all to him, and the feathers were gone now, so she couldn’t assemble it again and have him repeat it.  “Even if we do look like mice to them, that doesn’t mean they can’t fall victim to something bigger.  Like a tiger.”

“And it’s the _mouse’s_ job to fight the tiger?”

Anathema looked away, face red.  “It hardly seems fair.  That we help save the Earth and then get to go live our happily ever after in a nice flat in the city. But _they_ do it, and…”

“It really bothers you, doesn’t it?”

“We have to do _something_ , Newt,” Anathema said, desperation mounting.  “If you had _felt_ it…”

Newt squeezed her hands.  “All right, Anathema.  You know what you’re talking about.  Let’s go see what we can do.”

* * *

Anathema was able to glean something about their routines from her glance through the spell.  The angel, she thought, seemed to spend his Friday nights at a specific soup kitchen helping out.  The demon, meanwhile, hung around a night-club that was an hour away on the tube.

She wondered if that was on purpose.  She wondered if they had been avoiding each other.  She wondered if something dreadful would happen if they were brought back together.  There were a lot of details that had been left out that she didn’t understand properly, and Anathema second-guessed herself all the way over.  But Newt had sounded so confident in her, so sure of her ability to just figure things out, that she thought _I have to try._

They hit up the soup kitchen first.  A human volunteer offered them seats to the meal before Anathema realised what was happening and waved him away, saying they weren’t there to eat.

“So what’s he look like?” Newt asked, squinting at the line of volunteers handing out food.

“I should be able to sense his aura,” said Anathema.  “Hmmm…None of these people.”  She flagged down the volunteer who had spoken with them and asked, “Excuse me, we’re looking for someone.  He’s pretty tall, got very curly hair, may go by the name Ezra?”

“Oh, you must mean Mr. Fell!” said the volunteer.  “He works in the back.  I’ll go tell him there’s someone here to see him.”

The volunteer disappeared into the back.  A few moments later, a haggard figure came out to meet them.  He looked like he hadn’t brushed his hair in weeks or slept in millennia.  He was about the most un-angelic-looking person either of them could think of.  He didn’t seem entirely here in the present.

His eyes drifted above their heads.  “Er, hello?” said Anathema, giving a little wave.

The angel’s eyes snapped down to her.  “Er…Do I know you?”

“No,” said Anathema.  “I don’t think so.  My name is Anathema.  You’re Aziraphale, right?”

Aziraphale looked at her sharply.  “Don’t say that so loud.  Let’s go talk outside.”

They went onto the street.  Aziraphale refused to say anything until they had moved off into the adjacent alley.

“How do you know my angelic name?” Aziraphale demanded.  “I haven’t told it to any humans in years.”

“I…”  Anathema was suddenly unsure of how to proceed.  She didn’t think it would go over well if she just demanded Aziraphale abandon his angelic duties and go with her.  And it definitely seemed like the two of them had been staying apart on purpose.  Would she have to trick them into following her and meeting each other again?

Additionally, she wasn’t sure how he would react to finding out she was a witch. The witches Heaven condoned were simply re-labeled as prophetesses, but witchcraft _did_ have a bit of a sticky history with the religion Aziraphale served.

She could claim authority from a Higher power.  That would surely do it.

“I’m a prophetess,” said Anathema.  “I’ve had a vision.”  That wasn’t too much of a stretch of the truth, actually.  “And I came to give you instructions.  The Metatron sent me.”

As soon as the last sentence left Anathema’s mouth, Aziraphale’s face crumpled into a cowed expression.  “Oh, I see. What are the instructions?”

“You, uh…You’re supposed to follow me,” said Anathema.  “You can take a break from your work here.  This is very important.”

“All right,” said Aziraphale, sounding utterly dejected.  “Please give me a moment to let the supervisor know I’m leaving.  I’ll be right back out.”

He disappeared back into the soup kitchen.  “Boy…” said Newt.  “ _That_ guy helped save the world?”

“You should have seen them before, Newt…”

Newt put his arms around himself to guard against the cold.  “We’ve got the angel.  Can we go home now?”

“We still have to get the demon.”

Newt grimaced.  “Must we?”

“Newt!”

“What?  He’s a _demon._  He’s responsible for all sorts of awful stuff, right?  Why should we help him?”

“They’re a _pair_ , Newt.  You can’t have one without the other.”

“Mmm,” said Newt, not sounding convinced.

“Are you afraid of him?”

Newt gave her a look.  “Can you blame me?”

Anathema couldn’t in good conscience say that she wouldn’t have been afraid of the possibility of meeting a demon with just the information Newt had. “He’s not like that, Newt.”

“Sure, sure.  I’m sure he’s got a heart of gold.  Poor guy needs our help so he can go back to whatever he was doing before, which I’m sure was helping little girls get kittens out of trees.”

Anathema gave him a dirty look.  Aziraphale reappeared, ending their sniping.  “All right,” said the angel.  “Lead the way.”

“We’ve just got to hop back on the tube for a bit,” said Anathema.  She noted the increasingly late hour on her watch with concern, suddenly wishing she had been able to talk Newt into driving them.  “Hopefully we won’t get there too late.”

Aziraphale did not bother to ask where they were going.  He let himself be led onto the train like a herd animal.  He took a seat across from Newt and Anathema and let his eyes drift absently over them as the train pulled away.

“I don’t like the way he’s looking at us,” Newt whispered to Anathema.

“Don’t be a baby,” Anathema answered him.

Aziraphale did not say a single word the entire ride.  He seemed absolutely miserable.  Anathema made attempts to engage him in idle conversation, but he refused to respond even to that.

“This is us,” Anathema told him when they were there.

Aziraphale shuffled off the train after Newt and Anathema.  Anathema led them up from the station into the chilly night air.  She wrapped her scarf more tightly about herself.  “All right.  Good, it’s just right there.  Let’s go.”

Anathema paused whenever the night club came into view.  She could see huge groups of people moving about inside, and the music was so loud it was audible even from across the street.  Places like that had always been particularly overwhelming for Anathema.  She had to deal with feeling everyone’s auras on top of the usual sensory stimulation.

She really didn’t want to go in there.  Luckily for her, she could faintly feel the aura she was after just outside the club.  

It was markedly bigger than those of the humans around it.  And it had a certain dark tint to it.

“There he is,” said Anathema.  “He’s around back.  Aziraphale, will you wait for us on the corner here?”

“All right,” said Aziraphale.  “I don’t suppose I have much choice.”

Anathema took Newt’s hand and bypassed the entrance to the club, peeking her head into the alleyway beside it.  Down at the end, just before the dumpster, a woman in a slinky red dress leaned against the wall; a slim figure in a black suit leaned over her.  The two were engaged in a very passionate snogging session, bodies pressed together.

“Hmph,” said Newt.  “Oh yes, he looks _so_ miserable.”

In the faint light, Anathema caught a glint off a wedding ring on the woman’s finger and thought she had an idea of exactly what was happening here.

Without further comment, Anathema legged it up the alleyway towards them. Neither of them acknowledged her advance.

The man in the black suit—who at this point Anathema confirmed, yes, was Crowley exactly as she saw him in her memories—leaned in to bury his lips in the woman’s shoulder.  She tilted her head back and let out faint moans.

“Ah, excuse me,” said Anathema.

The woman’s head snapped towards her.  Crowley, very slowly, raised his head, but did not look at her.

“We're a bit busy,” the woman huffed.

“Mr Crowley?” said Anathema.

Anathema caught sight of a thin tongue flicking out of Crowley’s mouth, very quickly.  Then, he pulled a pair of sunglasses out of his breast pocket and slipped them on. “Go wait for me inside,” he murmured.

The woman reached down to collect a discarded handbag off the floor, then scurried to the back entrance of the club, where she disappeared.

Crowley turned, hands in his pockets.  “What?” he said gruffly.  “I'm kind of in the middle of something.”

“Ah…” said Anathema.  She was sure that if she could just convince Crowley to walk the thirty feet out of the alley and lay eyes on Aziraphale, something would happen.  “Would you mind coming with me for a bit?”

“What’s this about?”

Anathema bit her lip.  “I’m a witch.”

Crowley sneered at her, turning back towards the club.  “Piss off.”

“Beelzebub sent me!” Anathema blurted out.

Crowley froze.

“Don’t worry about finishing up your job here.  I need you to come with me.”

Crowley turned back to her, whipping his sunglasses off.  Even though Anathema knew full well Crowley did not have human eyes, she still wasn’t quite prepared for it.  Newt, who hadn’t had any preparation whatsoever, took a shocked step back.

Crowley’s slit pupils were blown wide in panic.  “I followed my instructions.”

“I’m sure you did,” said Anathema.  “I just need you to come out here.”

“I—I—I wasn’t doing this for enjoyment,” said Crowley.  “Duke Hastur told me to come here and spread sexual immorality.  I swear it.  He’s my direct superior.  I was following his orders to the letter.”

“You’re not in trouble.”

“I-I know there was a no sex rule, but the qualifier was I should do it if a superior gave me a mission,” said Crowley, voice ratcheting up faster and faster with anxiety.

“You’re not in trouble,” Anathema repeated, holding her hands out in what she hoped was a placating way.  “I promise.”  She leaned in towards Newt and rapidly whispered, “Go get Aziraphale.”

Newt turned around and jogged out of the alley.

Crowley trembled as though Anathema had threatened to shoot him.  “I’m sorry I was rude to you.  I really am.  Hastur told me to do this.  You can ask him.”

“We just need to talk to you about something,” said Anathema.  “Scout’s honour.  Just talk.”

Crowley took a step back.  “L-last time he said that…”

“Please don’t run away,” said Anathema.  “Please just wait.”

Newt appeared at the mouth of the alley.  Aziraphale was behind him, but the angel was moving more slowly.

“What did Beelzebub offer you as a reward for doing this?” said Crowley.

“Nothing—”

“Whatever it is, I’ll give you more.”

Newt arrived, pushing Aziraphale.  The angel’s face collapsed into an expression of sorrow the second he laid eyes on Crowley.

Crowley took another step back.  “S-so this is it, then?” he snapped.  “Beelzebub’s had enough of me following directions and wants to see me suffer even more?”

“No, no, no,” said Anathema.  “Now that you’re both here, I—”

Anathema heard a _shing_ from behind her and turned to see that Aziraphale had drawn a huge sword from out of nowhere, leveling it at Crowley.  Crowley, meanwhile, had produced a pair of very long, wicked-looking knives, and had them out and crossed in front of him.

“No,” said Anathema.  “No, put those _down._ ”

Before she could move to get in between them, Crowley lunged at Aziraphale with a yell.  Aziraphale blocked his attack with his sword, then pushed him back and went on the offensive. Crowley twisted to avoid it.

“Newt, make them stop!” said Anathema.

“What do you want _me_ to do?” said Newt.

Crowley tried to sink a knife into Aziraphale’s shoulder, but the angel blocked, and the knife skidded off the blade and clattered onto the cement.  The sword came down and carved a gash in Crowley’s arm, from elbow to wrist, eliciting a cry of pain.

“Stop!” Anathema yelled, racing forward and grabbing Aziraphale from behind. Newt, taking his cue, tried to grab Crowley’s arms.

Crowley elbowed him out of the way and pressed forwards, bringing the knife down at Aziraphale.  Aziraphale held the sword out to block, and the knife came down, grinding against it. Crowley pushed to try and break the block, and Aziraphale stepped back, squishing Anathema against the alley wall.

Newt got both of his hands on the arm holding Crowley’s knife, trying to pull it away from Aziraphale.

The two blades still ground against each other.  Aziraphale and Crowley finally locked eyes from over their blades.  And they both burst into tears, arms trembling on the weapons.

Crowley leaned into Aziraphale, sandwiching the flats of the two blades harmlessly between them, sobbing.  Aziraphale sunk to his knees, and Crowley went down after him, head on his shoulder.

“I can’t do it,” Aziraphale wept.  

“Me neither,” said Crowley.  “Tell Beelzebub whatever you like.  But I can’t do it.”

“I can’t kill him,” Aziraphale moaned.  “I just can’t.  Do whatever you want to me.”

“Even if it means more torture,” said Crowley, “if it came to it—”

“Wait!” said Anathema, frantically waving to cut off their lamenting.  “I didn’t—I never told you to fight each other. I’m not actually here because Metatron or Beelzebub sent me.”

They both looked up at her with wet eyes.

“That was just a little—um—that was just to get you both here.  We’re here to help you.”

Aziraphale stared at her foggily.  “And who are you again?”

Anathema puffed out her chest.  “My name is Anathema Device.  I’m an occultist, professional descendant, and your new friend, and I’m going to do whatever it takes you help you sorry pair.  Now follow me.  We’ve got to get back on the tube before it stops running for the night.”


	4. Timely Help

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On tumblr at http://not-a-space-alien.tumblr.com/post/171293949005/earth-helps-back-part-4-timely-help

Anathema wasn’t sure to what extent Aziraphale and Crowley were trackable by their respective sides.  The two of them seemed convinced they were being watched and would be found out at any moment, but there was no source of surveillance evident, and when she asked them about it, neither of them could offer a coherent answer.  (“They’ll find out somehow, I’m sure,” Crowley had answered, while Aziraphale had merely offered truisms about the watchfulness of Heaven.)

Nothing materialised to confront them as Anathema led them off the tube and back to their flat.  Anathema started to suspect that they _weren’t_ being watched and had just been scared silly.

She thought they should be safe inside the flat.  She had made it a habit of lacing the flat with protective sigils, which she updated when her occult readings revealed something new.  They had a masking effect; she was never able to sense Newt’s aura from outside the flat.  She was positive it would have the same effect on supernatural entities.  Hopefully that would give them some reprieve.

She let Aziraphale and Crowley go into the flat first, then shut the door and hummed in a satisfied way when she wasn’t able to sense their auras anymore.

“Okay, we should be safe enough here,” Anathema said as she locked the door behind her.  “Though it doesn’t look like anyone was following us, or even took notice that you left…  If anyone shows up, we’ll...cross that bridge when we get there.”

Aziraphale and Crowley didn’t look to care one way or the other.  It seemed they both had resigned themselves to further punishment when they had decided not to kill each other.  They didn’t believe her when she told them she would make sure it didn’t happen.

Mostly they just seemed tired.

Anathema invited them to sit on the couch, and they shuffled forwards and did so. Anathema pulled up chairs from the kitchen for her and Newt.

“All right,” said Anathema.  She had brought some things from the first-aid kit, and now she looked pointedly at the gash on Crowley’s arm.  No one had seen fit to pay any attention to it till now, not even Crowley himself.

Crowley half-heartedly removed his suit jacket, as though he didn’t think it were necessary.

“Roll your sleeve up,” said Anathema, soaking a clean towel in warm water.

Crowley did so without comment.

Anathema clucked disapprovingly as she wiped the blood off his arm.  “Do you think this will need stitches?”

Newt brought over another towel to catch the water dripping onto the floor. “ _Do you think we can convince him to go to the hospital_ is probably the more important question,” he muttered to Anathema.

Anathema grimaced a little as she washed the wound out.  “Do you want something for the pain?” she asked.

Crowley didn’t respond.  His eyes remained unfocused on Anathema’s hands.

“Does he…y’know, need any of this?” said Newt.  “He’s immortal.”

“That doesn’t mean he can’t feel pain, Newt,” Anathema chided. “Crowley?  Crowley, will you look at me please.”

He looked up at her with those strange reptilian eyes.

“Do you want to go to the hospital?”

“You said Beelzebub sent you?” was what Crowley answered.

“For the last time,” said Anathema.  “That was a lie to get you not to run away.  I don’t know Beelzebub.  I’ve never met Beelzebub.  Before this morning, I didn’t know Beelzebub existed.  Like I said: I’m a witch, I used a spell to learn about you, and I want to help you.  Now.  Do you want us to take you to the hospital?”

Crowley shook his head.

Anathema didn’t press the issue.  She settled for applying some antiseptic and wrapping Crowley’s arm up tightly in ace bandages.

As Anathema piled the remaining supplies back into the first-aid kit and snapped it back onto the wall, she caught out of the corner of her eye Aziraphale brush his fingers lightly against the wound and whisper, “I’m sorry.”

Crowley tapped his hand, but otherwise didn’t respond.

“Did you always have a beard?” Aziraphale said with a half-lifted hand, as though he wanted to caress the demon’s jawline.  “I can’t remember.”

“Let it grow out a little,” Crowley said in a low voice.  He rubbed the neatly trimmed facial hair as though just noticing it for the first time.  “And it looks like you’ve lost weight.”

“Okay,” said Anathema, reseating herself.  “That should be okay for your arm for now.”

“You said you were going to help us?” said Aziraphale.  “How were you going to do that, exactly?

“Ah,” said Anathema.  “Well, for starters, I think you should be safe here in my flat for a while.”

Aziraphale waited for the rest of the plan, but she struggled to offer up anything.  “Well,” said Anathema eventually.  “How can I help?  Whatever you need, I’ll give it to you, if I can.  You’re in a tough spot, but there must be _some_ way out.”

Aziraphale’s face fell slowly.  “You don’t know either.”

Anathema fiddled with the hem of her skirt, feeling Newt’s accusatory gaze lingering on her.  “Surely there must be _something_ I can do.”

“We could get in trouble for just being in the same room together like this, you know,” Crowley snapped.  “Why the Hell did you come after us if you don’t have any idea of what to do?”

“Be polite,” said Aziraphale.  “She’s doing this out of the goodness of her heart.”

“It doesn’t matter why she does it!” Crowley exploded.  “She’s going to get us royally fucked if she sticks her nose where it doesn’t belong.”

Aziraphale’s hand was still resting on Crowley’s injury; the angel surreptitiously dug his fingers in and squeezed a little.  Crowley sucked in a sharp breath.

“No, you’re right,” said Anathema.  “Okay, I have an idea.  The problem is your superiors.  Metatron and Beelzebub, right?”

They both nodded.

“What if we can get someone more powerful than either of them involved?”

Aziraphale looked at her doubtfully.  “Who’s more powerful than those two?  Who’d be willing to help _us?_ ”

“Neither of us are very popular among either Heaven or Hell,” Crowley said. “We wouldn’t be in this situation if we had powerful friends.”

“Well,” said Anathema, “I could contact Adam Young.”

Both Aziraphale and Crowley simultaneously reached towards her, panic-stricken, as though she were going to walk off and phone him this very minute and they wanted to pull her back.

“No,” said Aziraphale.

“You can’t,” said Crowley.  “Please.”

“Goodness,” said Anathema.  “Why not?”

“Last time we met Adam Young, he set a strict policy of non-interference,” said Aziraphale.

“He pointedly said he didn’t want anyone ’messing about’ with the world,” said Crowley, “and then zeroed in on me and Aziraphale as two people who ‘mess around’ with it.”

“And since then, we’ve done practically nothing _but_ messing about,” said Aziraphale.  “Heaven and Hell forced us to up our quotas.  I’m positive Adam wouldn’t be pleased about it.”

“He might help us,” said Crowley.  “But he might also decide the problem would be easier solved by just wiping Aziraphale and I out of existence with a thought.”

“He wouldn’t do that!” Anathema protested.  “Surely he wouldn’t.”

“You know him well, then?” said Aziraphale.

“Well…” said Anathema.  She couldn’t in good conscience say yes.  She hadn’t spoken with him in years.  Her contact information for him might not even be up-to-date.

And given what they had recently suffered at the hands of powerful supernatural beings who were annoyed with them, she couldn’t blame them for being nervous about the idea of throwing themselves on the mercy of someone they had met only once years ago, and who hadn’t seem particularly pleased with them at the time.

Not to mention what Anathema had just learned about Adam erasing her memory. If she tried to contact him, he might decide to do it again and make Anathema forget.  And she really didn’t want to.  She thought he wasn’t the kind of person who would kill Aziraphale and Crowley rather than help them…but before this she had also _thought_ he wasn’t the kind of person who would tamper with someone else’s memory.  And a person could change a lot between 11-years-old and college age.

“Okay,” said Anathema.  “Okay, I won’t contact him, if you feel that strongly about it.  Maybe as a last resort.”

The two sat back, still looking ill-at-ease.

“I’ll think of something,” said Anathema.  “In the meantime, you’ll be safe here.  I’ll watch out for you, I promise.  You two just take it easy.  Here, I’ll go make us some tea.”

Anathema started to get out of her seat to go to the kitchen, when Crowley muttered, “I can’t drink it,” while Aziraphale simultaneously said, “None for me, thank you, dear.”

“You’re not allowed to drink tea, even?” said Anathema.

“Why not?” said Newt, bewildered.  “It’s just tea.”

“Aziraphale and I used to like eating and drinking a lot,” said Crowley bitterly.  “So they just told us we had to stop it cold turkey.”

“Oh, is that what it was?” said Aziraphale foggily.  “I was wondering why I kept getting cravings.”

Crowley hid his face in his hands.

“Neither of you have been eating?” said Anathema.  “Really?”  That had been part of the vision, but she thought she must have interpreted that part wrong or something.  It just seemed too outlandish.

“I eat bread once a day,” said Aziraphale, while Crowley shook his head.

“You don’t  _need_ to eat?” said Newt.

“Not technically,” said Crowley.  “Can survive without it.”

“But do you get hungry?” said Newt.

Crowley looked up at him.  His miserable expression was enough of an answer.  He technically didn’t need to eat in the same way he technically didn’t need to breathe.

“Stay right there,” said Anathema.  “I’m going to make some soup.”

Without looking back, Anathema motored into the kitchen and immediately set about cutting up some potatoes from the bottom of the fridge.

Newt walked in behind her.  “Anathema, can I talk to you for a second?”

“Sure,” said Anathema, busily fishing beef stock from the cabinet. “Just as soon as you put a pot of water to boil on the hob.”

Newt did as requested, setting the soup pot on the burner.  Anathema bustled about throwing things into it.

“Anathema,” said Newt.  “That’s a _demon_ , and you’re doting over it like it’s a sick primary-schooler.”

Anathema’s knife froze over the carrots.  “ _It?_ ”

Newt crossed his arms and leaned on the counter moodily.  “Sorry.”

“What’s your point?” said Anathema tersely.  “Those two have been through a lot, and I just saw it all.”  She threw her hands up.  “Okay, maybe they don’t _need_  me to cook for them, but can you blame me for— for wanting to take care of them?  I’ve known them for—”

“For a few hours,” said Newt pointedly.

She put her hands on the counter.  “It feels so much longer.”

“Anathema, you’re putting yourself in harm’s way to help these people that we hardly know anything about—”

“ _You_ hardly know anything about,” Anathema said.  “I’m about to reassemble that spell and make you use it.”

Newt held up his hands in a placating way.  “I don’t need it.  I can use my imagination.”

“No, I don’t think you can,” said Anathema stormily.  She turned back and kept cutting up the vegetables.  “Crowley was tortured for years.  Literally _years._  And Aziraphale, well—it wasn’t as long for him, but someone put their fingers directly into his brain to tear him up.  It had the same effect.  And before, they were so full of life and spirit and— They didn’t fit the mold, so whatever parts that stuck out got cut off so they _would._ They’re being denied their basic humanity, Newt!  It isn’t fair!”

“They _aren’t_ human.”

Anathema’s hand trembled on the knife.

“And you know what doesn’t seem fair to me?  Two beings with god-like powers who never die who want to be human, but only the good parts of it.  They want to have free will and eat, drink, and be merry but never worry about money, working a job, getting sick, or watching someone they care about die.   _That_ doesn’t sound fair.”

Anathema looked up from the cutting board, directly into his eyes. “You’re…you’re jealous of them!”

Newt flushed red immediately and broke the eye contact.  “Can you really blame me?”

Anathema faced away from him deliberately, taking her anger out on the potatoes with the knife.  “They belong to the Earth now, Newt.  They made that decision when they stood up for it.  We can’t just let them— _ow!_ ”

She cried out as the knife sliced into her fingertip.  She pulled her hand away quickly and stoppered the bloodflow with a paper towel.

“Careful!” said Newt, wrapping his hand around hers.

She glared at him.  “Look, if you really hate them so much, nobody is forcing you to stay here and help me.”

She ripped her hand out of his, washed the blood off, and dumped the last of vegetables into the pot, turning the flame up all the way.  She stood at the pot stirring it, angrily wishing Newt would go away.

She felt hands on her shoulders.  “Anathema, of course no one is forcing me to.  But come on.  We both know I’m going to stick with you through thick and thin, no matter what dumb shite you get yourself pulled into, so whatever problems you make are _my_ problems too.  You can’t blame me for getting a _little_ mad if you’re reckless.”

She stood there without saying anything until she thought the soup was edible. Then, she said, “I can blame you for anything I please,” and started ladling the soup into a bowl.

Newt’s hands disappeared.  She ignored him and walked into the dining room.

It looked like Crowley and Aziraphale had been talking in hushed voices, hunched in towards each other, but they straightened back up and moved apart as Anathema came in.

She set the bowl in front of Crowley.  “Here, eat this.”

“I’m not allowed.”

“Well, I’m not allowing you to _not_ eat it.”

Crowley half-heartedly played with the spoon.

“Since when have you not done something you wanted to do just because it _wasn’t allowed?_ ”

Crowley’s serpentine eyes jiggled from her to the soup and back again, clearly conflicted.  “My life on this planet started with tempting a woman to eat something she wasn’t supposed to, and it’s going to end the opposite way.”

“Nobody’s going to find out,” said Anathema.  “I promise.”

Crowley picked up the spoon and began to ravenously dig in.  Aziraphale watched him somewhat wistfully.

“Would you like some, too?” said Anathema.

“Yes, please,” said Aziraphale meekly.

Anathema went back into the kitchen.  Newt was still leaning against the refrigerator with his arms crossed.

Anathema retrieved another bowl from the cabinet.  Newt snapped in a strained whisper, “What the hell did you tell him that for?”

Anathema ladled out a second bowl without saying anything.

“That you promise no one will catch him breaking the rules?  You think you can keep that promise?”

“I’ll do whatever I have to,” said Anathema.  “I mean it.”

“That _sounds_ nice, Anathema, but aren’t the people pissed off at them, like, higher up on the supernatural food chain? What do you think you can do?”

“I’m a _witch_ , Newt.  I don’t piss my pants at every threat of the supernatural, unlike _some_ people.”

She walked out without looking at his expression.  She set the bowl in front of Aziraphale, who gratefully began to sip it, much more reasonably-paced than Crowley, who had already finished his and was slurping at the remnants at the bottom.

“Do you want seconds?” said Anathema.  “There’s plenty left.”

Crowley nodded in an embarrassed way.  Anathema took his bowl and went back into the kitchen.

Newt leapt at her again as soon as she entered.  “Just because you’re a witch doesn’t mean you’re a superhero.  If some creature that can literally move mountains with a snap of its fingers comes by, what are you going to do?  You saw their memories.  Aren’t they dealing with nasty characters?”

“I know spellcasting,” said Anathema, refilling the bowl.  “And I’ve warded our apartment.”

“Do you honestly think,” said Newt, practically hissing, “that some fancy penmanship and a couple of rocks that you talked to would keep out some powerful demon?  You’re really _that_ confident?”

Anathema let the ladle drop back into the bowl, splattering soup.  “Yes, actually, and I’m glad to know what you _really_ think of my occult work.”

“Anathema, use your head.  You’re making promises you can’t keep.  And they’re so desperate that they’ll believe whatever you tell them.  It’s cruel.”

“Interesting how you suddenly care about them.  Did you have such a change of heart in the ten seconds I left the kitchen?”

“I’m not—”  He broke off, taking a deep breath.  “I’m not saying you can’t help them, but you need a plan, not to just barrel ahead and take them home with you like they’re stray kittens—”

“If you’re just going to try and convince me to throw them out on the street, then save your breath.  I can’t believe _you_ managed to stop an apocalypse.”

“Neither can I!” Newt laughed.  “Because you and I have no _idea_ what’s out there, Anathema!  You don’t really know what you’re dealing with, not _really_.  You’re telling them to risk themselves on the promise of safety you can’t provide. You’re totally unprepared.”

“I’m doing this, and you can’t talk me out of it.  I’ll stay with them night and day if I have to.”

“And I’ll ask you one more time what you plan to do if something else shows up. Something really nasty that won’t just eat soup.  What will you do?”

Anathema looked at him with hatred.

“Draw leylines at it?”

A head hesitantly appeared in the doorway to the kitchen.  “Is everything all right?” said Aziraphale.  “Please don’t shout at each other.”

Anathema shook herself.  “Yes.  Everything’s fine.”  She fixed Newt with a hard stare.  “Newt was just leaving.”

Newt clenched his jaw.  “Fine.”

Aziraphale fearfully withdrew as Newt stomped out.  Anathema waited in the kitchen and listened to him put his jacket on and close the door behind him without further comment.

She waited until she heard Dick Turpin pulling away outside.  Anathema finished filling the soup bowl and came back out into the living room.  “Sorry about that,” she said, regaining her seat at the table.  “Don’t mind him.  He’s a real grump.”

In the end, Anathema fed the two of them a combined seven bowls of soup and half a loaf of bread’s worth of grilled cheese.  This venture eventually concluded with Crowley staggering over to the rubbish bin and vomiting up everything he had just eaten.  Anathema had a thought about certain kinds of pets eating until they killed themselves if you overfed them, but she kept it to herself.

She bade them to sit on the couch and watch telly while she cleaned up the dishes.  They both seemed grateful for it and exhaustedly settled together in front of a nature documentary.  When they seemed to think Anathema wasn’t looking, they scooted a little closer together, and Crowley curled up against Aziraphale’s side.

Anathema started the hot water running and put on her gloves.  She needed time to think.

She hated what Newt had said because she hadn’t had a sufficient answer. She _didn’t_ know what she was up against.  She kicked her brain into high gear as she scrubbed out the soup pot. She had gotten her PhD at nineteen. She was smart.  Surely she could handle this.  

Right?

While Anathema had quite a lot in her supernatural repertoire, very little of it was very offensively-oriented.  It mostly divination—tarot cards, scrying, things like that—some healing and crystal work, and some warding.  Probably the most complicated thing she could pull off would be a demon-summoning spell, and that was only if she took the time to dig through her occult book collection to find the one book that had a page or two about it, and if she could get her hands on all the ingredients.

Demons were vulnerable to holy water, weren’t they?  She could use something like that to take out Beelzebub, but that wouldn’t help against Metatron.  Was there an angelic equivalent?  Aziraphale and Crowley would probably know that, but she felt it would be pretty risky to have such things around these two, where it could kill _them_ instead if they weren’t careful.  She had stored among her memories Crowley’s weaponisation of holy water against a Duke, but also exactly how terrified he had been even being in the same room as a bottle of the stuff.

No, that wouldn’t do.  What else was there?

She thought about the demon-summoning spell again.  That didn’t seem very useful unless there was a demon who could help them, but they had both stated that neither of them had very powerful friends in either Heaven or Hell.

She thought about talking to Adam again, but the misgivings from earlier came back to her.  It had been years since that incident at Tadfield.  Who knew what kind of person Adam Young would be today?

It was hard to admit it, but the truth was, there seemed to precious little that Anathema actually _could_ do.  Humans weren’t the powerful ones in this game between Heaven and Hell.  They were little more than bystanders.  Not when people like those two had powers like they did.

Well, that was it then, wasn’t it?  Anathema had to convince Aziraphale and Crowley to do it themselves.  They were so thoroughly demoralised that they wouldn’t even put up a fight, but if she could get them back to their old selves, she was sure they’d be able to figure out a way to protect themselves.

Crowley had come up with a way to evade a Duke, and both of them had talked circles around Metatron and Beelzebub to save the Earth.  They were capable of doing it.  They just needed a little help.

Anathema pulled the plug on the drain and took the gloves off.   _She_ could give them the help they deserved.  She was sure she could do that much, at least.  They had put everything at risk—and incurred this punishment—for the sake of helping the Earth.  Seemed like it was time for Earth to give them a little help back in return.

All she’d need to do was reignite their spark.  Get them to remember why they had rebelled in the first place. And remind them they could still do it.

Probably best to do it sooner rather than later, before anyone noticed they were missing.  Well...maybe she could give them a little more time to rest first.  Just a little.

She walked out into the living room and stopped dead.

Aziraphale was lain back; Crowley had fallen asleep with his face buried in Aziraphale’s stomach.  And from out of the demon’s back, a pair of enormous pearly-white wings had appeared to practically take up the entire couch.  They drooped over his legs, off the side, and onto the floor.

Anathema couldn’t control the unutterable delight that cracked across her face.  Aziraphale had been stroking Crowley’s hair, but now he looked up at her and smiled faintly.

She tiptoed over and knelt by the couch.  She half-extended her hand out towards the wings without thinking, then stopped and withdrew it, afraid to touch them.  “They’re…they’re so beautiful,” she whispered.

Aziraphale re-started stroking the demon’s head.  “You’ve seen them before.  I thought you remembered.”

“Well, yeah, but I…”  She reached out again.  “Not this close.  And that was…a different circumstance.”

“They just kind of came out when he fell asleep,” said Aziraphale.  “I don’t think he realises.”

Anathema tried to look at his face to confirm he was asleep, but he was oriented squarely away from her.  “Do you think he’d mind if I touched them?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know,” said Aziraphale.  His hand stopped its mechanical motion, and Crowley shifted slightly, sighing contentedly.  “I wouldn’t have guessed that he would sleep at all, really.  I don’t think it’s common for demons to do so.”

This part Anathema knew.  “He let his body get used to sleeping regularly, so now he gets tired without it.”

“Oh.”  Aziraphale’s voice bordered between wistful and flat-out depressed.  “It’s strange, isn’t it?  I’ve known him for millennia longer than you, but you know more about him than I do.”

Anathema took Aziraphale’s hand from her position on the floor.  “Is that what Metatron did to you?”

He nodded.  “I remember who he is...vaguely...but not much else about him.”

Anathema squeezed his hand.  “Well, you have plenty of time to learn it all again.  Don’t you worry.”

Aziraphale wiped his eye.  “And I remember my feelings for him very clearly.”

Anathema squeezed his hand again.  Then she reached out once more and, before she could stop herself, stroked the manifested feathers delicately.  Crowley’s wing twitched briefly, but he eventually settled.

His feathers were so incredibly soft.  Anathema dared move her hand up to the base of his wing, where she could see a few downy feathers, and stroked them.

“Where…do they _go?_ ” said Anathema.

“Pardon?” said Aziraphale dimly.

“When they’re not here.  The wings.”

“Oh, they’re always here,” said Aziraphale.  “It’s just that humans can’t see them.  They’re in the ethereal plane.”

“Oh,” said Anathema, more blown away and fascinated by that single statement than any human had ever been by any statement in the history of the planet.

She continued to stroke his wing.  “Do you think he’d mind if I took a few of his feathers?”

“Whatever for?”

“For spell work,” she rushed to explain.  “I don’t know if I have any spells that require angel feathers, but it’d be nice to have some.  Surely they must have some powerful properties.  Right?”

“I don’t know, unfortunately.  I don’t really know anything about spellwork.”

“Really?  I’d think supernatural beings would know all about…you know.”

“We don’t really have any need for it.  We speak Enochian, of course, and sometimes we know each other’s true names, but beyond that…”  He shrugged, then gestured to Crowley.  “But I can see he’s shedding a few of his coverts.  They should be loose enough that you could just pull them out without him even waking up.  He’d never know they were gone.”

Anathema reached up to the feathers to which Aziraphale had directed her and rustled them out of his wing as though she were fishing out a precious relic.  She held the feathers reverently.  “Thank you.”

He smiled.  “They’re not _mine_ , dear girl.”

“Right.”  She wanted to thank Crowley when he woke up, but she was scared he’d be upset she took them and demand them back.  She didn’t think it sounded like him, but you never know.  She also half-wanted to ask Aziraphale to give her some of _his_ too, because she was fascinated by the possibility of doing tests to see if they had different occult properties. But she felt too shy to ask for any more than she had already taken, and Aziraphale did not offer.

As she found a place to stash the feathers, Aziraphale moved his hand to Crowley’s wings, mimicking Anathema’s petting motions.  “He seems to like it.  But I don’t know if he’d let us do this when he was awake.”

Anathema came back over and curled up in the easy chair, feeling contended. “You do seem to care for him quite a lot,” she said.

“I do,” said Aziraphale, slightly misty-eyed.  “I don’t know if he knows exactly how much.  I don’t remember if I’ve ever told him.  And I…  I think the Metatron left those feelings in to make this whole experience more painful for me.  But I’m very, very glad I still have them.”  He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand.  “Thank you for taking us here, Anathema.  I don’t know how long we would have gone on like this…”

“Come on, Aziraphale,” said Anathema.  “This whole thing your superiors did to you, and you two just went meekly along with it?  Since when did you just give up?  You’ve always at least _tried._  That’s kind of your whole deal.  You’re going to just take this lying down, then?”

Aziraphale’s lip quavered, and he looked down at Crowley.  “We…we did _try_ , dear girl,” he said softly.  “There’s only so much we can do.  I… I don’t know about Crowley, but I had been trying to think up a plan to escape Heaven’s control since the first day I was released.  But I…just couldn’t think.  They tore everything out.  I don’t have all the experiences that helped me make that decision to rebel at Armageddon.  I’m as stupid and naïve as I was at the Eastern Gate.”

Anathema smiled grimly, unsure of what to say.

“I had forgotten there are people in Heaven who can just pull me out and do whatever they want to me,” said Aziraphale.  “And nobody will say anything, because who’s going to stick their neck out for _me?_ ”

Anathema reached out and rubbed his arm.  “You don’t belong to Heaven any more, Aziraphale, not the way I see it. You and Crowley are of the Earth now, through and through.  What you did at Armageddon proves that.”

Aziraphale smiled sadly.  “I wish Heaven and Hell saw it that way.”

Anathema withdrew her hand, twiddling her thumbs.  “I’ll stick my neck out for you.  Why don’t we go visit your bookshop?”

Aziraphale looked over at her with sharp interest.  “Y-you will?  I…have a bookshop?”

“Yes!” said Anathema, and Aziraphale looked half-excited, as though he were desperate to go but suppressing the urge.  “Or, at least, you _did._ I don’t know exactly what happened to it when you left it.  It might still be there.”

“I think I’d like that very much,” said Aziraphale.  Anathema couldn’t see, but he had buried his hands in Crowley’s feathers to try and hide their shaking.

* * *

They made their plans to leave when Crowley woke up, which turned out to be quite a long time later.  His hair was in disarray and he looked too disoriented to even know what year it was when he awoke.  Anathema resisted the urge to say “Good morning, sleepyhead,” because that seemed too undignified for any demon, even one like Crowley.

She did wonder what Newt had done.  Probably slept in his car.  She was torn between still being angry at him and being embarrassed they had let things get so heated between them.  She had half-expected him to come back by now and apologise.

But she was still too proud to call him and ask him to come back.  Maybe she’d do it after their visit to the bookshop. Or maybe he’d come back while they were out, and she’d avoid having to stoop to asking him to come home.

Aziraphale and Crowley stepped out onto the street, and Anathema locked the door behind her, turned on the stoop, and suddenly realised she hadn’t planned any way to get to Soho.

“Hey, Crowley, you had a nice car, didn’t you?”

Crowley nodded half-heartedly.

“Where is it now?”

Crowley shrugged noncommittally.

“All right,” said Anathema.  “Ah… Normally I’d ask Newt to drive me, but he’s taken his car and gone…We can walk on down to the train station.  No worries.”

They made their way to the platform without incident and waited for the train.  Aziraphale and Crowley seemed just as subdued and beaten as they had the previous day.

“Hey, I know!” said Anathema, artificially cheerful.  “After this, why don’t we go over to Mayfair and see if we can get into your flat?”

“Okay,” said Crowley.

“Your car might still be there, and we can check and see if any of your plants are still alive.  Do you think any of your neighbours might have been watering them?”

Crowley lifted his shoulders and dropped them.

The train came and Anathema spent the entire ride trying to figure out which stop they should get off at.

They got to Soho without anyone bothering them.  Anathema again thought that Heaven and Hell might have been exaggerating how closely they were watching Aziraphale and Crowley, just to scare them into obedience.  Nobody seemed to be paying them the slightest attention.

“It’s on this street, I think,” said Anathema, taking Aziraphale by the wrist. “Come on!”

They found the shop eventually.  The storefront was dusty and darkened, and there was a “Business for Sale” sign on the door, but the looming shapes in the background hinted that the store’s contents were unchanged.

“Oh!” said Anathema, pressing her face against the glass.  “Aziraphale, look!  It looks like your books are all still there!”

Aziraphale rubbed his hands together.  “R-really?  Those are all mine?”

“Yes!”  Anathema tried the door, but it rattled against the lock and refused to open. “Oh, darn.  I don’t suppose you still have the key?”

Aziraphale shook his head.  But he looked like he was practically salivating to get through that door.

There he was.  The old Aziraphale.  The bibliophile who disobeyed for his bookshop.  Anathema dared start to hope that this might work.

“Hmm,” said Anathema.  “Is there anyone you might have left a key with?  If they recognise you, we might—oh?”

Aziraphale held his hand over the lock, and it clicked open.  The door yielded to his touch.

“Or we could just—ah, do that, I guess,” said Anathema.

She followed him in, and Crowley came in last.

Aziraphale found the light switch, and the overhead light flickered on, illuminating a room covered floor to ceiling with books, volumes crammed into and spilling over the shelves.  Everything was dusty, but it looked like nothing had been removed.

Aziraphale’s face lit up.  “I…I remember this!”

“Yeah?” said Anathema.  

“Just… Just barely.” Aziraphale strode forwards and took a volume off the shelf, cracking it open and scanning the page.

“Oscar Wilde,” said Crowley.  “You could never get enough of that guy.”

Aziraphale closed the book and held it to his face, breathing it in, as though savoring its smell.  Then, he clutched it to his chest and moved further in, disappearing among the shelves.

Anathema navigated the crowded space with some difficulty, then found Aziraphale at the back by the counter with a stack of books he had pulled off the shelves.  Crowley was holding some for him, speaking to him quietly.

“This is what you stopped the apocalypse for,” said Anathema.

Aziraphale looked up at her.

“This is what you loved.  What you still love.”

“This…this is great,” said Aziraphale, sounding overwhelmed.

A floorboard creaked above them.  Crowley and Aziraphale both looked up at the stairs that led to the second floor of the shop.

A pair of footsteps sounded on the wood.

“Shite,” said Crowley.

Aziraphale had a look of absolute fear plastered on his face.  He dropped all the books.

“Who’s there?” Anathema called at the stairs.

A pair of sandaled feet came into view, descending the stairs slowly.  Aziraphale let out a noise like a panicked animal.

“Aziraphale,” reverberated a Voice disapprovingly, and swaddles of white cloth with six pairs of wings trailing appeared attached to the feet.

“H-how did you know I was here so fast?” Aziraphale stammered.

The Metatron ducked so as not to hit his head on the top of the staircase, hands holding bundles of robes so as not to trip, eyeing Aziraphale like an entire pack of wolves on a flagging deer.

Aziraphale bolted for the door.  The Metatron held out a hand, and Aziraphale went limp, smashing into a shelf and then dropping to the floor, sprawling.

“I am quite disappointed to find you back here,” said the Metatron softly. “You were doing very well.”

Crowley darted in front of Aziraphale, hunkering down over him protectively.  “Y-You can’t have him.”

“Oh, you’re that demon.”  Metatron reached the bottom of the stairs and stopped with hands folded.  “It’s cute that you think you can stand between us. Unfortunately for you, being _cute_ won’t save you.”

Anathema suddenly realised this was where she was supposed to do something like she had promised.  She planted herself in front of Crowley, pushing him back and sandwiching him against the bookshelf with Aziraphale’s inert body between her legs.

Anathema had never experienced anything quite like the adrenaline rush that dumped into her system as the Metatron serenely glided over to her, wings held aloft.  “And who might _you_ be?”

Anathema was fixed in place by that celestial gaze, overwhelmed.  “You can’t hurt me.  I’m a human,” she said, hating herself for how much her voice trembled.

Anathema was just guessing that representatives of Heaven weren’t allowed to hurt humans.  She had no idea exactly how lucky she was that she turned out to be exactly correct.

“Get lost,” said Crowley, with as much courage as could reasonably be expected from any demon in such a situation.

Metatron tilted his head to see Crowley behind her, then smiled politely.  “I’ve told Beelzebub where you are, so we can expect him to join us at any moment.”

“Y-you and Beelzebub are on speaking terms?” Crowley exclaimed.

The Metatron licked his lips, brushed his veil out of his face, and leaned in, smile widening until it was more of an ominous sneer right in Anathema’s face.  “Yes. And unlike me, agents of Hell have no restrictions about harming humans.”

The room all at once filled with the sound of glass shattering and the metal frame of the front door banging open and hitting the wall. Simultaneously, the air hummed with the aching thrum of a swarm of insects.  The Metatron straightened up and stood still among the cloud of flies and locusts that rushed in around him.  The force rattled the lights, which flickered and swayed, and the horde aggregated into a roughly humanoid shape.  Beelzebub stepped out of it with his sword already drawn back for a blow.

It was at this point that Crowley realised three things:

One, that the sword was heading right for Anathema and would kill her if allowed to continue on.

Two, that Anathema didn’t have quick enough reflexes to react to the sword in time, but Crowley, whose physical capabilities were supernaturally augmented, did.

And three, that Anathema embodied everything about the Earth that he loved. The gentleness and care, helping total strangers, but simultaneously such a fiery spirit that would rebel against anything it pleased, the attitude of _I can’t win, but I have to try, because what am I if I don’t?_ And that he _could not let her die._

Crowley shoved Anathema so hard that she flew directly into the Metatron, and the two fell into a heap on the floor with a startled cry from both of them. Simultaneously, Beelzebub’s sword swiped at the spot where Anathema had been just a moment before, which at this point in time happened to contain Crowley.

The sword carved a gash down Crowley’s torso, pulling a line down from shoulder to the opposite hip.  The force of the blow sent Crowley backwards into the bookshelf, knocking everything off it, and then he tumbled down to the floor.

The Metatron managed to shove Anathema off, and Anathema was all too happy to back away from him, face frozen in horror.

Crowley managed to push himself up from the rapidly spreading puddle of blood under him, to his hands and knees, but Beelzebub planted his boot on the back of Crowley’s head and ground his face into the floorboards.

“Eager to begin your punizzhment early, I zeee,” buzzed Beelzebub.

The Metatron struggled to his feet and attempted to regain some dignity. “We caught them talking together in the shop.”

Beelzebub made a sound that to Anathema was like nails grazing her brain. “Hmmm…  I see you’ve slept.  And eaten.  And obviously you’ve...cavorted.  I gave you five rulez, and you directly broke _three_ of them.”

Beelzebub reached down and grabbed above Crowley’s shoulders.  Crowley’s wings appeared from the ethereal plane, bases gripped tightly in Beelzebub’s fist.  The bigger demon lifted him and dragged him away from the shelf.

Crowley looked on the cusp of unconsciousness, but he suddenly came to life, throwing his arms out wildly to try and grab onto something, wings flailing as far as they were allowed.

“D-don’t,” said Anathema with horror, too frightened to move, barely able to get her voice above a whisper.

Her view of Crowley was obscured by the Metatron as he stepped forward to where Aziraphale was still lying frozen on the floor and hauled him up.

Anathema took a step forward, as if to pull him away, but Metatron turned back to her and pierced her with that gaze again.  From somewhere behind him, Crowley gave a cry of pain, which cut off abruptly.

The Metatron’s face softened into an almost friendly expression.  “You’d do well to stay out of things that are beyond your control, little human.”

“Don’t,” said Anathema.  “Don’t take them.”

The Metatron spread his wings wide—and then he and Aziraphale disappeared in the blink of an eye.  The lights burnt out with his departure, jittering and then falling still.  Where Crowley and Beelzebub had been, there was now only a smear of blood on the floorboards with red handprints around it.

And now Anathema was alone in the dimness, amidst broken glass and the tangy, coppery smell of the aftermath.  She fell to her knees.

* * *

It took Newt half an hour to get back to their flat from whatever corner of the city in which he had hunkered down.  He fully expected Anathema to already be there with how urgent she had sounded on the phone, but the flat was empty when he returned.  

Had some creature of the Pit come and taken her?  This was what he had been afraid of.

He stood in the living room and dialed her mobile.  While it rang, he idly kicked through their belongings on the messy floor, but everything appeared to be more or less like he had left it.  The warding sigils up on the wall also appeared unbroken.  No signs that anything had gone wrong while he was away.

Anathema didn’t pick up; the phone kept ringing and ringing.  Then, he heard Anathema’s ringtone faintly outside the door, and the front door banged open.

Newt hung up.  “Anathema!  There you are!  Is everything okay?”

Anathema walked straight forward into his arms, sobbing into his chest. “You were right,” she wailed. “Newt, you were right.  I’m such an idiot.”

“What happened?” said Newt.

Anathema pushed him away now.  “This is all my fault.  I—I have to fix this.”

“Anathema, talk to me.  What’s happening?”

Anathema moved into the dining room to the bookshelf.  “Newt, you were right.  Someone else showed up, and I—I couldn’t do a bloody thing.  I was too scared to even move.”

Newt stood in the doorway watching her as she knelt on the floor, pulling books off the shelf.  “Oh, no.”

Anathema scanned the titles and threw the ones she didn’t need behind her. “This is all my fault.  Newt, I just made things a thousand times worse for them.  I-I fucked up.  I _fucked_ up.”

“Slow down there,” said Newt, kneeling beside her and putting a hand on her back.  “What are you going to do?”

“I have to fix this,” said Anathema, pushing all her books to the side until she found the one she was looking for.  She flipped it open.

Newt put his hand on the pages and forced it to the ground so she had to look at him instead.  “Anathema.   _What_ are you going to do?”

“Witches can summon demons,” said Anathema, yanking the book out from under Newt’s hand and paging through it.  “I’m going to summon Crowley.”

Newt put his hand back on the book and forced Anathema to put it down again. “Anathema, you’re smarter than this. Take a moment to think.”

“I can’t!” Anathema cried.  “They’re already in trouble!  I can’t let them be there for a single moment longer, when it’s my fault—”

She tried to wrestle the book off him, but he refused to relent. “Anathema!” he shouted.  “Just stop panicking for a moment!  Breathe!”

Anathema stopped, hands shaking.

Newt shut the book and slid it away, taking her hands.  “Look at me.”

She did so.

“If you summon Crowley, what’s to stop them from coming to take him again?”

“I don’t know,” Anathema said.  “I’ll figure something out.”

“No,” said Newt.  “Nope. Try again.  That’s how you got in this situation.”

“I can’t just do nothing!”

“I’m not telling you to do nothing, Anathema!” he shouted.  “I’m just telling you to use that massive brain of yours for something other than feeling guilty!  It’s not going to help them if you get them back here, only to let them be taken again!  You need to _plan._ ”

“Plan,” said Anathema shakily.  “Plan.  All right. You’re right.”

Newt leaned forwards, taking her in his arms.  “It’s all right.  Come on.”

She wiped her face against his shoulder.

“You can do this.  I know you can.  But only if you don’t rush headfirst into it because you’re overwhelmed.  You need to calm down so you can do your real work.”  He drew back.  “All right?”

Anathema nodded.  “Right. You’re right.”  She let go of him and started sifting through the books she had discarded.  “Okay... Help me find my volume of sigils.”


	5. Come to Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On tumblr at http://not-a-space-alien.tumblr.com/post/171362434645/earth-helps-back-part-5-come-to-me

 

Anathema was the latest in a long line of occultists.  And despite her long hours with _The Nice and Accurate Prophecies,_ she didn’t fully grasp the true significance of her legacy.  Witches like her were the answer to supernatural meddling in human affairs. Heaven and Hell said to humanity, _You are helpless before us.  You have no powers._

Witches evolved to say, _Yes we do_.

Both sides alternatively tried to take credit for or stomp out people like her. They were a pesky thorn in the side of an otherwise neat and tidy worldview that humans were helpless, the Earth a passive battlefield upon which angels and demons could duke it out.  But witches, unbeknownst to many, were capable of some very powerful feats of their own.

Had Anathema been aware of this historical context, she would have felt even more delighted in what she was currently doing than she already did.  As it was, all she felt of her past was the volume of spellbooks she kept in the living room, arcane knowledge passed down through her mothers that said _You are not helpless.  You are the most powerful being in the universe.  Kick arse.  You can do whatever you want._

And what she wanted to do was save her new friends.

It took her seven hours to compile and draw up everything that she needed. Newt sat at the table with her and swore to help, but he fell asleep about two hours in.  She draped a blanket over him before hitting the books again.

She had bags under her eyes and the sun was beginning to rise by the time she finished.  She set her chalk down and gave a single excited clap, ran over to wake Newt up, and made him examine her work.  She had to explain everything to him several times, but he seemed to get it in the end.

Newt circled the outside of what she had chalked on the floor, hand on his chin. He examined it very closely, as though he could read the writing in it, which he definitely couldn’t.

“Okay,” he said.  “Explain it to me one more time.”

Anathema stood in the center of the biggest circle, which had a trillion squiggly lines radiating from the outside and pointing inwards at a blank spot roughly five feet in diameter.  “This is the summoning circle.  When I perform the spell, he’ll appear here.”

She hopped across the circle like hopscotch, being careful not to disturb the lines, and stood in a smaller circle off to the side.  “You’ll stand here and perform a simultaneous incantation.”

“Which will do what?”

“Hide our location, and make it look like the summoning circle sent him to America.”

Newt tapped the side of his head.  

“Do I have the critic’s approval?”

Newt hemmed and hawed.  “Are you prepared for him to be pissed at us?”

Anathema’s shoulders fell.  “Newt, I know I messed up, but we’re _helping_ him—”

“Are you,” Newt interrupted, striding over to her and looking directly into her eyes, “prepared for him to be really, really pissed at us?”

Anathema crossed her arms.  “Yes. The summoning circle has a binding feature that means whatever is inside—no matter how powerful—can’t leave until someone from _outside_ the circle breaks the lines.  That is, if you use it by summoning something either with a feather or with its true name.”

“And?”

“…and I’m summoning him with a feather, Newt.  I took some from him yesterday.”

Newt nodded.  “All right, all right.  What are the weaknesses in this?  The whole plan, not just the circle.”

“There aren’t any weaknesses.  I’ve accounted for everything.”

Newt crossed his arms.

“All right,” said Anathema wretchedly.  “I still don’t know how the Metatron located us at the bookshop.  And both Metatron and Beelzebub saw me there. There’s a _chance_ they might know where I live.  I don’t know how, but they _might_ know where I live, and they _might_ catch on that the spell didn’t really happen in America instead of here.  And, in the event that both of those things happen, they _might_ be able to see through the warding on the flat that hides auras, because I’m not sure how it’s perceived by non-human entities.”

Newt tapped his chin.

“I spent two hours trying to find a solution to any of those, but nothing came up.  There are risks, but I’ve minimised them.”

“All right,” said Newt.  “This sounds like the Anathema that saved the Earth.”  He walked over to the smaller circle.  “Show me what I need to do.”

Anathema spread out a map of the United States of America in Newt’s circle and gave him a pin which she claimed was imbued with supernatural energy. Newt got flashbacks to the Witchfinder army, but he took the pin nonetheless.  Fortunately the incantation Newt had to recite wasn’t very complicated, because his pronunciation was terrible. Anathema ended up incorporating more of the incantation into the circle so he didn’t have to say all of it.

Anathema stood at the edge of the summoning circle, at the point from which a huge portion of the radiating lines originated.  “All right, Newt.  Are you ready?”

“Where am I supposed to put the pin, exactly?”

“Wherever you want!  Is there any state you have a grudge against?  Beelzebub and Metatron will probably show up there and be pissed. You could send them to a spot you really hate.”

Smugly, Newt moved the pin over Florida.  “Okay.  Then I’m ready.”

Anathema quirked an eyebrow at him.

“Too many oranges,” said Newt.  “I hope the bastards drown in oranges.”

Anathema shrugged, then turned back to her work.  She took out one of the feathers she had pulled from Crowley earlier, holding it like it was made of porcelain she didn’t want to break. “Okay, I’m going to start.”

Anathema had to say quite a long incantation while the feather burned with fire from one of the black salt candles she had in the outer rim of the summoning circle.  When she was done, she scattered the ashes over the inner rim.  

She heard Newt’s voice tripping over his incantation, but he said it correctly enough for it to work, she thought.  He stuck the pin in the map, then gave her a thumbs-up.

And then, in as low and as menacing a voice as she could manage, she said:

“I command you to come to me, over whatever distance, regardless of circumstance.”

The black candles all went out, and a half-second later, the red candles ringing the inner circle flickered to life of their own accord.  And then suddenly there was a body in the inner circle, facedown.

“Bloody Hell,” said Newt, jogging over to Anathema and pulling her back.

Crowley’s wings were spread, but they curled up against the edge of the summoning circle as he appeared.  Iron barbs had been driven through the delicate white feathers at intervals, as though he had been nailed down before being pulled up here.  His hair draped to the floor and covered his face.

Anathema couldn’t help but wonder if Newt’s steely grip on her shoulder was out of concern for her safety or because Newt couldn’t bear the sight.

Slowly, Crowley’s head tilted upwards, revealing that he was missing an eye; there was only a ragged hole on the right side, still dripping blood like tears.  The remaining eye looked at them in doubt and confusion.

“Ah—Ah—” stuttered Anathema, unsure of what to say.

Crowley’s decimated body started shaking with subdued laughter, and he pushed himself up to his knees.  “Ahh…fuck,” he said, moving gingerly.

“Are you okay?” Newt said, who only realised afterwards what a stupid question it was.

“Look at you two,” said Crowley, sounding strained.  “Just need see-no-evil and we’ll have all three monkeys.”

Anathema had no idea what he was talking about for a moment.  Then she realised Newt had a hand over his mouth, and Anathema had been standing there with her hands on the side of her head.

Crowley choked out another laugh and palmed his face.  “Th-though if you had waited a few more minutes, I guess see-no-evil would have been _me._ ”

Anathema started forwards.  “Here, let me help you.”

“Don’t touch me!” Crowley hissed, straining to flap his wings.  “Don’t _fucking_ touch me.”

Anathema stepped back to the outside of the circle.

Gasping with pain, Crowley wobbled upright, ill-treated wings hanging limply behind him.  He looked from Newt to Anathema and then demanded in a raspy voice, “Where’s Aziraphale?”

“He’s not here,” said Anathema.  “I was working as fast as I could, and there was only a demon-summoning spell—”

Crowley dropped back down to his knees, face in his hands.

“Crowley, I was hoping you might know how to adapt the spell—”

“Why did you save me first?” Crowley yelled, and his good eye was wet with tears when he looked back up at them.

Anathema took another step away.  “Crowley, I-I was working as fast as I could.  The spell was for demon-summoning.  It might work if I have Aziraphale’s true name, but I was hoping you might have some information I could use to—”

Crowley let out another groaning hiss, sounding less and less human by the second.  “Why didn’t you sssssave him firsssssst?”

Newt stomped his foot, and Crowley’s eye flew from the terrified Anathema to him.  “Hey, idiot,” he said.  “Anathema’s the smartest person in the whole world, and if she says she needed to do it this way, that’s how it is.  Now are you going sit there moaning about the circumstances of your rescue, or are you going to help us get that angel out too?”

Crowley drew his arms about himself, breaking eye contact.

“We’ll let you out if you behave yourself.”

Crowley held his arms up.

Anathema rushed forwards and erased part of the inner circle with her foot. Newt took one of Crowley’s arms and supported him as he struggled to get his feet again, whimpering against the pain the movement caused him.  Anathema took his other hand and led him over to the table.  He eased into a chair as best as he could with his wings out. When Anathema reached out to touch the bloodied feathers to offer help, she heard a sound like a rattlesnake’s warning and withdrew immediately.

With considerable difficulty, Crowley phased his wings out of existence. The effort left him panting and gasping. He drew his chair forward to the table, where Anathema’s notes were still spread out.  “Okay, what do you need me to do?”

“Newt, go get something from the medicine cabinet,” she whispered, and he dashed to the bathroom.

“I don’t want any painkillers,” said Crowley.  “I don’t want anyone to do anything else for me until Aziraphale is safe. We’re wasting time.”

Newt returned with a bottle of pills and a glass of water, handing them to Crowley.  Crowley pointedly set them off to the side without using them.  “What do you want me to do?”

Anathema and Newt looked at each other, then sat down at the table.

Anathema slid her notes forward to show him her sketch of the circle.  “This is the circle and incantation we used to summon you.  I used the ashes of one of your feathers for the required familiarity component, but I think it should also work with a name.  Like, a true name, or something?  Do you know a name Aziraphale has that might work?  I don’t think ‘Aziraphale’ fits quite what it needs.”

Crowley nodded.  “It sounds like it would work with his name in Enochian.”

“And you know what it is?”

He nodded.

“Yes!”

Crowley blinked rapidly and started swaying.  Newt rushed forwards and steadied him in the chair.  Anathema took the pill bottle and dumped some of them out, then pushed the glass of water towards him.

Crowley groped for the pills and ingested them, then downed the glass of water in great gulps.

“You’re no help if you pass out, mate,” said Newt, patting his shoulders.

“Give me a pen,” Crowley said.  “I’ll write it down.”

Anathema slid a notebook and ballpoint to him, and he wrote a series of characters with an unsteady hand.

“All the stuff in this circle and the incantation is in Infernal,” said Crowley. “It might work for Aziraphale if it’s in Enochian instead.”

“Can you translate it?” said Anathema.  “I don’t know what any of it says.  I copied it out of a book.”

Crowley picked the pen back up and started scratching out more symbols. “Your penmanship is excellent for not speaking this language.”

Despite the circumstances, Anathema beamed.

“Enochian is an angelic language, then?” said Newt.

“Yes,” said Crowley.

“Then how come _you_ know it?”

“I may be a bit rusty, but I _did_ speak it at one point, you know.”

It took about twenty minutes to do the translation.  Five of that was because halfway through, Crowley listed forwards and dropped his head onto the paper, smearing it with blood and making that page illegible.

Once they were done translating, Anathema got up to erase the chalk circle and start drawing a new one.  Newt helped her move the candles out of the way and then arrange them as she worked. Crowley looked like he wanted to help too, but he seemed ready to keel over just at the mere thought of getting up from the chair.

Newt took his position in the smaller circle and withdrew the pin from the map.  “All right, I’m ready.”

Anathema looked over at Crowley, who was watching them with desperate interest. She nodded at him in what she hoped was a reassuring manner.  “All right.  Let’s go.”

Anathema said the incantation, the unfamiliar language leaving her mouth with some difficulty.  As she spoke, she wrote out Aziraphale’s Enochian name in red ink in the outer circle.

Newt said his portion and stuck the pin in the map.

“I command you to come to me, over whatever distance, regardless of circumstance.”

One by one, the black candles flickered out, and the red ones came on. And then Aziraphale was in the inner circle, limply lying on his back, sprawled out.

Crowley bolted from his chair and hobbled over as fast he could, knocking over the candles and falling to his knees, tugging at Aziraphale’s sleeve.  “Aziraphale?”

“Aziraphale?” said Anathema, leaning over him.  “Aziraphale, are you all right?”

Aziraphale’s eyes flickered from her to Newt and then over to Crowley.  He blinked rapidly, then turned his head and gasped in relief.  “Oh my, oh my, oh my…”

“Aziraphale, do you know who I am?” Crowley said, shaking him.

Anathema knelt behind him and helped him heft himself into a sitting position.  Crowley clung to him, looking into his face desperately.

“Um…” said Aziraphale with a look around the flat.

“How are you?” said Anathema.  “What did Metatron do to you?  Did he get very far?”

Aziraphale blinked at her, as though he were having trouble focussing.

“Do you know who I am?” said Crowley.

Aziraphale looked at him for a few moments, grimaced, and shook his head in the negative.

Crowley tugged at Aziraphale’s lapels.  “ _No._  Yes, yes you do.”

“I don’t,” said Aziraphale, looking distressed.  “I’m sorry.  But you should probably do something about your injuries.”

“It’s _me_ ,” said Crowley.  “Please.”

“I…I don’t recall ever meeting you before.  But you’re hurt quite badly.  Maybe you should—”

“What’s my name?” said Crowley, tears spilling down his face.  “You must know.”

“I don’t,” Aziraphale said.  “I’m so sorry—”

“You _must_ know it.”

Aziraphale sniffled and caressed Crowley’s cheek while the demon sobbed. “Don’t cry,” the angel said tenderly.  “I don’t know why you're so upset, but don’t cry.  It’ll be all right.”

“It’s won’t,” Crowley said wretchedly.  “Hell’s teeth, that’s just like you, you great arse.”

“Come, now,” said Aziraphale.  “Why don’t we get you patched up before we worry about anything else?  You must be in pain.”

“Aziraphale, you’ve known him for six millenia,” said Anathema.  “You met him at the very beginning of Creation. Surely you must recognise him a _little?_ ”

Aziraphale stared at her, then looked back at Crowley.

“I-I’m your best friend, your partner—we—you’ve known me for forever,” Crowley stammered.

“What’s his name?” said Anathema.  “Try to remember it.”

Aziraphale looked at him very hard.  “Wait…  Are you…Crowley?”

“Yes,” said Crowley, relief washing over him.  “Yes.”

“ _You’re_ Crowley?”

“Yes, I’m Crowley.”

Delight slowly spread across Aziraphale’s face.

“You-you scared me for a minute there, angel,” choked Crowley.

“Crowley is the name of my best friend,” said Aziraphale.  “And we will always take care of each other.  That’s what I remember.  And if _you’re_ Crowley…”

“I am.  I promise.”

Aziraphale pulled Crowley in and crushed him in a hug.  “I put all my energy into holding onto you as long as I could.  Metatron was trying to pry it out of me, but I refused to let go of it.”

Crowley buried his face in Aziraphale’s shoulder.

“I couldn’t remember why, but I knew deep down that if I let go of you, I… that something dreadful would happen.  I refused to let him have you.  I’m so glad I didn’t.”  

Anathema felt Newt tug at her sleeve while this scene played out.  “Come on, I’m sure there’s something we need to do in the kitchen.”

Anathema hurried into the kitchen to get done whatever needed to be done as quickly as possible so she could get back out there. It took her a moment to realise Newt had just meant they should let them have some privacy.

* * *

Anathema tried to convince Crowley to go to the hospital.  He was that banged up.  She thought it was worth the risk of going back outside the flat.

She thought going outside the flat _should_ be safe, but then again, she had thought that before, too.

But Crowley refused.  She then tried to fuss over him with the first-aid kit, but Crowley merely took the kit and then retreated back to the living room, where he quietly asked Aziraphale to help him.

Anathema spent most of that afternoon sitting in the kitchen, pretending to cook but trying to eavesdrop.

Newt walked in and gave her a pointed look.  She shrugged and went back to cutting the same onion she had been cutting for the past three hours.  “You can’t blame me for being curious,” said Anathema.

Newt smiled faintly.  “No, I guess I can’t.  That what makes you Anathema.”  He strode forwards and took her hand, planting a kiss on her cheek.

“Newt, I’m sorry,” she said.  “I was wrong and you were right.”

Newt looked at her.  “What?  I was about to tell you _you_ were right.  You cooked up a spell that worked perfectly.”

“No,” said Anathema.  “You tried to tell me I should be cautious from the start, and I wasn’t, and those two ended up getting the short end of the stick because of it.  And then you talked some sense into me, to help me think of something that _would_ work.”

Newt rubbed her hands.  “Well, when you put it that way, you’re welcome.”

She returned his kiss.

“I _am_ sorry I talked about your witchcraft that way, though,” said Newt.  “You obviously proved that it’s a lot more useful than just…drawing leylines.”

“Hey, leylines helped save the Earth, you know.”

“Really?”

“Yup.”

He looked down at the floor, then up again at her.  “I’m sorry, Anathema.  It’s my job to support you, and I wasn’t there for you.”

Anathema smiled and tapped his nose.  “Well, I seem to recall _someone_ telling me to calm down and think when I was crying too hard to talk.  It wasn’t you?”

Newt smiled and rubbed his arm.  Then, his face became serious again.  “I’ll apologise to them.  For the way I talked about them.  They probably heard it.”

“All right,” said Anathema.  “They’d probably appreciate it.  I’ll defend you if they get mad.  Make sure they know how much you helped, you know.”

Newt stuck his head out of the kitchen to peer into the living room.

Crowley was lying on his belly on the floor with his bloodied wings stretched out.  His face was buried in a pillow, which he seemed to be holding onto for dear life. Aziraphale was sitting on his legs, hands gently working at the base of one of the iron barbs sunk into Crowley’s wings, murmuring to him encouragingly.  Four bloodied spikes that had already been excavated lay scattered about on the floor.

Newt watched as Aziraphale pulled it out, and Crowley let out a stifled whine into the pillow.

Newt retreated back into the kitchen.  “Let’s give them a few more minutes alone.”

Anathema spent the time chopping up vegetables, then got a pot of water on to boil.  Newt asked if maybe she should make something other than soup.  Anathema wasn’t sure what that was supposed to mean, but she decided against arguing with him and put the vegetables in the oven for a roast instead.  Hopefully both of them would keep it down this time.

Finally, Anathema could take it no longer and insisted Aziraphale and Crowley surely would have had enough time alone by now, and it should be fine to interrupt them.

The two were curled up together on the couch when they entered.  Crowley was wrapped in bandages over most of the skin he had showing, but he looked far more content than he even had when Anathema had found him at the club.

“How are you feeling?” said Anathema.

“Not as bad as it could’ve been,” Crowley answered, while Aziraphale smiled and said, “Better than I expected, honestly.”

“Er, your eye…” said Newt.

Crowley palmed his face.  “It’ll grow back.  We heal differently.”

“Oh,” said Newt.  “Good. Great.”

“Not like it’s the first time I’ve had an eye gouged out, after all,” said Crowley, with forced joviality.

Anathema thought it was supposed to have lightened the mood, but Newt merely grimaced.

“And you, Aziraphale?” said Anathema.

Aziraphale twiddled his thumbs.

“He was hurt in a…different way,” said Crowley.

“But I think I’ll recover, eventually,” said Aziraphale.  “It’s not all bad.”

“Okay,” said Anathema.  “Good.  Okay, Newt had something he wanted to say to you two.”

Newt stepped forwards.  “I’m sorry for the way I acted and talked about you two.  I’m positive you must have heard it, and it wouldn’t have helped when you were in such a bad situation.  I…I’m sorry I called you an _it_ , Crowley.”

Aziraphale hadn't the faintest memory of what Newt was talking about. But he sounded so sincere that Aziraphale, very generously, forgave him completely.  Crowley merely looked at him.

“It was awfully dehumanising,” said Newt.  He wiped his hands down his shirt, as though to clear the sweat off them. “From now on, nothing but interpersonal respect from me.”

“Okay,” said Crowley.  “You called me an _it._  What harm did that do me?”

Newt stared at him nervously.  Crowley’s gaze shifted from him over to Anathema.  “If you ask me, _you’re_ not the one who should be apologising.”

Anathema felt herself flush.  “Oh…”

Crowley crossed his arms.  Aziraphale tugged at him.  “Don’t be so hard on her.”

“No, you’re right,” said Anathema.  “I…I’m sorry, you two.  I made a mistake.  I wanted to help you, but I wanted so badly to be a big hero I rushed into it without thinking about the fact that if _I_ messed up, it wouldn’t be _me_ suffering for it...”

“It’s all right, dear girl,” said Aziraphale.  “I’m sure you were trying your best.”

“Crowley?” said Anathema when Crowley didn’t uncross his arms.  “Do you forgive me?”

Crowley unfolded from the couch and walked over to her, putting his arms around her.

“Thank you,” he whispered.  “He’s not all here, but he’s _here._ Thank you so much for bringing us back together.  I would have endured any amount of torture to get him back.”

Anathema returned the hug.  “You won’t have to endure any more torture, Crowley, I give you my word.”

Crowley disengaged and went back to the couch, where Aziraphale took his hand. Anathema squared her shoulders. “I said I’d do whatever it takes, and I mean it.  Even…even if it means admitting when I’m in over my head.  I promise I won’t make that mistake again.”

Crowley smiled at her.  “We all make mistake sometimes.  You wouldn’t be human if you didn’t.”

“Right,” said Anathema, feeling more warm and hopeful than she had in a while.

Anathema left them to themselves again after making sure they got something to eat.  She desperately wanted to take a nap, because she was exhausted, but there was one more thing she wanted to do before settling in to rest.

Newt came up behind her and leaned on the computer chair as she fired up her laptop.  “This will work for now,” said Anathema.  “But it’s not a permanent solution.  Metatron and Beelzebub are still out there.  We can’t hide Aziraphale and Crowley from them forever.”

“So what are you going to do?” said Newt.

Anathema navigated to her email.  “What I should have done from the beginning:  Admit I need help.”


	6. Bullies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On tumblr at http://not-a-space-alien.tumblr.com/post/171398282355/earth-helps-back-part-6-bullies

 

_art by[@nemeankitten](https://tmblr.co/mF7nZOEI0y5gs670H6Nljxg)_

 

_Hi, Adam.  I hope this is the right Adam.  My name is Anathema Device.  If you are who I think you are, you must remember who I am.  I had your phone number for a while, but we fell out of contact, and I tried to calling you, but I got a message saying the number was no longer active.  I couldn’t find your old house in Tadfield, and I couldn’t find your current location, even with a spell.  I guess you must have some sort of supernatural shield that protects you from occult prying._

_I managed to find your dad on Facebook, and you were listed as a relative.  Neither of you responded to instant messages, so I guess you’re not active on there, but I saw your university listed on your profile and looked up your email address through the school website.  I hope this is you._

_I need your help.  Two of my friends are in big trouble.  I’m guessing you remember who they are, too.  I promised that I would help them, but there’s only so much I can do by myself.  I’ve put together a temporary fix and we’re hiding out, but I’m sure we’ll be found again eventually._

_I’m begging you to help me keep my promise to them.  I’ve been too scared to contact you because I was afraid you’d erase my memory again, and Aziraphale and Crowley seem convinced that you might wipe them out of existence instead of help them.  I know in my heart you aren’t like that.  I don’t even care if you erase my memory any more.  I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’d much, much rather keep my memories.  I don’t want to forget these amazing things and my new friends.  But I just want to help them, even if it means that.  You’re probably busy, but I’m sure you could make some time to come see us._

_Anathema Device_

 

Anathema sent this email at 9AM, and her heart pounded the entire day while she waited for a reply, which she eventually got at 8PM.  It said:

_Meet me at St. James’ Park tomorrow morning at 8:30.  Bring bread. If Aziraphale and Crowley are so scared of me, you don’t have to tell them I'll be there, but make sure they come too._

_-Adam Young_

* * *

Anathema had been working on another circle.  She had been brainstorming ways to repurpose the inner circle of the summoning spell.  The new sigil was a protection circle, and if you worded it correctly, no being more powerful than the person who drew it could cross to enter it without explicit permission.  When she got the email, she scrambled to finish it, pulling another all-nighter.

When morning came, she packed up a knapsack full of candles, chalk, and her notes on the protection circle as well as the summoning circle.  She didn’t know how being able to summon someone would help them, but she’d be damned if she left it behind after putting so much work into it.

She then emptied their breadbox and woke Newt up, insisting they didn’t have enough time for him to make coffee before leaving.  Aziraphale and Crowley acted like Anathema was making them go out at three AM instead of eight, with the way they yawned and complained about not being allowed to sleep in.  They didn’t even bother to ask where they were going.

Newt offered to drive them, which Anathema gratefully accepted.  Anathema took shotgun, then plopped the knapsack between Aziraphale and Crowley in the backseat.  Aziraphale sat with his hands between his thighs, warming them. Crowley hadn’t changed out of his borrowed pajama pants and looked ready to go back to sleep as soon as Anathema turned back around, hair ruffled up and eyes half-closed.

“Don’t you two worry about a thing,” she said.

They set off.  When they were almost there, Aziraphale looked roused.  “Are we…going to the park?”

“Yup,” said Anathema.

Aziraphale dared look like he was going to enjoy it.

They reached the park.  Anathema found that, yes, Crowley had fallen back asleep exactly as predicted, head lolling on Aziraphale’s shoulder.  He seemed to resent being woken up again, but he perked up when he heard the ducks quacking. Anathema suddenly knew what the bread must be for.

“Come on, you two,” she said, taking the knapsack and handing them the bread. “There’s almost a whole loaf here. Head on over to the pond.  I’m right behind you.”

Aziraphale and Crowley held each others’ hands as they walked up the path to the duck pond.  The ducks looked at them quizzically, then quacked as though in recognition and began to clamber up out of the water toward them.

Anathema watched as the two sat down on the bench and started tossing bread to the ducks, who gobbled it up, oblivious to how fat it would make them.

Anathema lingered behind them with Newt, stopping on the walking path.  Newt put his hands in his pockets. “So…What’re we doing here?”

“We’re meeting the antichrist.”

“All right.”

“They don’t know, so don’t tell them.  They’re terrified of him.”

“And you brought them out here to meet him.”

“Yes.”

“I thought you wanted to be their _friend._ ”

Anathema grimaced.  “Right… I’m trying my best.”  She lowered the knapsack.  “Help me draw this, won’t you?”

Aziraphale and Crowley watched as Anathema began chalking things on the walking path a good bit off.

“Good thing we got here so early,” said Aziraphale.  “Otherwise there’d be more people around to gawk at the circle and step on it.”

Crowley tore off another piece and tossed it to a duck.  “Wonder what she’s drawing.”

“Crowley, look!” Aziraphale gasped, derailing his train of thought entirely.  “That one has ducklings.”

Crowley and Aziraphale both dropped their bread and got onto the ground to examine the yellow, peeping creatures more closely.  “So she does,” Crowley breathed.

She wouldn’t let them get close enough to touch the ducklings, but they swarmed on the bread all the same.  Aziraphale and Crowley both felt inexplicably delighted by the animals.

Aziraphale took Crowley’s hand.  “Crowley, I…I’m glad I escaped with enough memories of you to remember how I feel about you.”

Crowley smiled.  “Me too.”

Aziraphale laughed a little, then leaned over and gave him a peck on the cheek. “And I’m glad you escaped with enough of _you_ left to love.”

When Aziraphale pulled back, Crowley was blushing profusely.

“Had I not made it clear?” said Aziraphale.  “Exactly how fond of you I am?”

Crowley looked down at his lap.  “I…I-I…”

“I don’t remember if I’ve ever said it.  But I figured I should probably tell you now.”

Crowley nodded.

“What about you?”

“What _about_ me?”

Aziraphale rubbed his hand.  “You don’t have to say it, if you don’t want to.  I’d imagine you might have trouble with it.”

Crowley said nothing.  Then, he leaned over and returned the kiss on the cheek.

“I’m glad we’re here,” said Aziraphale.  “Specifically here, feeding the ducks.”

“Me too,” said Crowley, scarcely above a whisper.

They sat in silence among the ducks for a few minutes.  They both felt much more full than they had in the past few years, in a way they hadn’t since the attempt at Armageddon.

They had dropped all their bread, and the ducks were demanding more, so Crowley held his hand out and miracled a small loaf into it, which he broke in half and shared with Aziraphale.

“Have we done this before?” said Aziraphale.  “I mean, is it something we did together before all this?”

“Yes.”

“Regularly?”

“Quite.”

“Whose idea was it, usually?”

“Mine.”

Aziraphale leaned onto Crowley's shoulder, feeling at peace.  “I can see why you liked it so much.”

Crowley suddenly went rigid, fingers digging into the bread in his hand.

“What’s wrong?”

Crowley looked over at the angel, absolutely panic-stricken.  “I know how Metatron found us in the shop.”

Newt was helping Anathema finish up the outer layer of the protection circle on the walking path when he saw Aziraphale and Crowley abruptly rise from the bench and start sprinting over to them.  “Hm?”

“That should be big enough for four people to stand in, right?” Anathema was saying.

“Anathema, they’re…”

Aziraphale and Crowley arrived at Anathema, winded.  Crowley looked on the verge of tears.

“The miracle Aziraphale used to unlock the door,” said Crowley.  “Metatron was monitoring how he was using his angelic powers, and as soon as he did something he shouldn’t have, came down.”

“And Crowley just used another miracle,” said Aziraphale.

“I did it without thinking.  I’m so sorry.”

She looked wildly from one to the other.  “So you’re saying…”

“They’re coming.”

Anathema’s resolve hardened.  “Get in the circle.”

Aziraphale and Crowley followed her instructions immediately.  Anathema hurriedly finished the outer rim, then dragged the knapsack over and quickly scribbled out the missing inscriptions on the inner ring.

Newt took a step so that he was standing inside the circle as well.  “There,” said Anathema.

“You’re…ah…sure that this’ll work?” said Newt, with obvious nervousness.

Anathema felt occult energy start flowing through the complex sigil and sensed a wall of something push out, as solid and real as the ground under her.  “Yes.”

The four of them stood there, breathing anxiously.  They would have looked funny to passersby.

A cloud of insects appeared in the distance.

“Here we go,” said Anathema.

The insects resolved into the shape of Beelzebub a good ways off, and he walked calmly down the path towards them when it became obvious that they were going to make no attempt to run away.

Beelzebub came to the very edge of the circle’s protective field, armor jingling, hand on his sword hilt.  Crowley gripped Aziraphale’s hand so tightly his nails left marks, and he averted his eyes, keeping his gaze on Aziraphale’s shoes.

“Hmmm,” buzzed Beelzebub.

“She must be a witch,” said a Voice, and with a flap of wings, the Metatron appeared on the opposite side of the circle.  The Metatron folded his wings, clasped his hands into a simulacrum of prayer, and calmly walked around the edge of the circle.  “A regular human would never be able to put together something this complex.”

Aziraphale’s eyes tracked Metatron's movements, and he trembled, absolutely beyond terrified, mind filled with images of a painful white ceiling.

The Metatron came around and stood beside Beelzebub.  He bent over, a plastic smile on his face, and withdrew a citrus fruit from his sleeve.  “I’ll admit, that trick was clever.”  He dropped the orange, which rolled slightly into the circle, then the smile dropped from his face.  “But I've had quite enough of Florida.  We were not finished, Aziraphale.  We still have business together.”

“And Crowley,” Beelzebub said, with a wicked grin.  “Everyone waz having zzo much fun.  Zurely you couldn’t have meant to leave the party early?”

Aziraphale and Crowley clung to each other.

“This is the problem, isn’t it?” said the Metatron.  “That you gain more comfort from the presence of a demon than your own superior.  Rest assured I’ll be able to pull that out.”  He narrowed his eyes.  “As well as any sort of empathy you may have for him.  No mistakes this time.”

“Obviouzzly we were not thorough enough, either,” said Beelzebub.  “We zzhall keep him down for azz long azz it takez this time.”

“Leave us alone,” said Aziraphale, without much bravado.

Metatron laughed like a wind chime.  “Well, it appears as though this wall is pretty solid, but you can’t stay in there forever.  If it comes down to a waiting game, I’m positive we—the supernatural beings who do not need to eat or sleep—can outlast a group that includes two humans.”

The mention of Anathema made her snap back into reality.  And from the headspace she had just been in, she pulled back with her an incredible, indescribable amount of utter rage.  

Aziraphale and Crowley had _tried_ , they had done everything in their power, they were _trying_ , and they were being utterly squashed down in return.  Nothing made Anathema angrier than that.  And now the ones responsible for it were right here in front of her.

She had gotten it wrong.  Aziraphale and Crowley’s weren’t more powerful than her.  It was the other way around.   _Humanity_ was the winning side.

She stomped to the edge of the circle, pushing Aziraphale and Crowley out of the way, and pointed one outraged finger at the two outside the circle.  “ _How dare you?_ ” she shouted.

Metatron and Beelzebub looked at each other quizzically, then back at her.

“Who do you think you are?” Anathema yelled.

“The Voice of God,” said the Metatron, and Beelzebub started, “Beelzebub, Lord of the Fliez, zecond in command of H—”

Anathema cut him off with, “You’re _bullies_ is what you are!  You’re petty and mean—and—just very unpleasant!  I don't know who thought it was a good idea to give you power, but I'd have some strong words for them.”

Metatron’s eyes widened.  Beelzebub stared at her slack-jawed.

“Command?  Hah!  I wouldn’t put either of you in charge of a Burger Lord, let alone a supernatural domain.”

Metatron side-eyed Beelzebub.  “Can she say that?”

Beelzebub looked absolutely flabbergasted.  “You dare talk to uz thiz way?  Who do you zz…think _you_ are?”

“ _My name is Anathema Device!_ ” she bellowed.  “And I can do _whatever the Hell I want._ ” She pointed at Aziraphale and Crowley. “And you see these two?  They’re _my_ friends.  They belong to _Earth,_ not to you two, and I won’t let you hurt them.  I won’t let you even _talk_ to them like that anymore. They deserve _so much better_ than the likes of you two.  Celestial and infernal authorities?  You’re lower than the lowest worm in the lowest dirt of the—”

Beelzebub’s face grew increasingly astonished with each word that left Anathema’s mouth.  The truth was that no mortal had ever had the gumption to talk to him that way, and it had caught him completely off-guard.  The Metatron had it worse, because he had been under the impression that mortals were _incapable_ of talking to him that way, and the contradiction had short-circuited his brain, and now he had no idea what to do and was watching _Beelzebub_ , of all people, for cues as to the proper reaction.

“Now you zee here,” said Beelzebub.  “It’z highly improper for—”

“ _I wasn’t done talking_ ,” Anathema snarled.  “You’ve both clearly abused your positions to get petty revenge on someone put under your command because you don’t like them.  That’s the most cowardly, skeevy thing you could do to someone.  These two are two of the most wonderful people I’ve ever met, and you wanted to utterly destroy them to make yourselves feel better.  Who does that?  It's pathetic.  You're pathetic.”  

Beelzebub’s face contorted into stormy anger, and he started to stalk around the outside of the circle.  “You can chatter all you want.  You are zztill trapped, and I doubt your wordzz will be zzo bold with a zzword through your chezt.”

“And I doubt you’ll be zzo bold when you get your azz beat,” Anathema muttered, and an idea flew from across the duck pond and cannonballed into her head.

“What?” said Beelzebub stormily.

“I was just saying,” said Anathema.  “How ugly you are.”

Beelzebub looked offended.

“Compared to Crowley, especially,” said Anathema.  “I mean, just look at the two of you.  What happened?”

“Anathema,” said Crowley, voice trembling, “what are you doing?”

She waved him back and continued on, “I’m thinking especially about your wings.”  She stepped forward, being careful not to smudge the chalk lines, and put her hands behind her back nonchalantly.  She stopped when Beelzebub was close enough to reach out and touch through the invisible wall.

She had to look up now to meet his eyes, but she did so.  “Crowley’s wings were so beautiful.  You must have done that to his wings in the last round of torture because you were jealous. Your wings must be the ugliest thing in the universe.  Are you _rotting?_ ”

Beelzebub hunched over to look directly into her face haughtily.  “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“I bet they are,” said Anathema.  “I bet they’re full of maggots.  Disgusting.”

His wings were, in fact, the one part of Beelzebub that never had maggots in it, and he was quite proud of them.  So, he spread them and turned around.  “You foolizzh—owzch!”

Beelzebub gave an undignified squawk as Anathema thrust her hand into his wing and pulled out a handful of feathers.  He turned back around as Anathema booked it to the center of the circle.

“You horrible creature!” Metatron said.  

Anathema kicked the knapsack over and retrieved her chalk, shooing Newt to the side and scribbling on the sidewalk.  “Aziraphale, do you know how to write the Metatron’s name in Enochian?”

Aziraphale nodded vigorously.

“Help me draw this.”

Aziraphale got down on his hands and knees and took a piece of chalk, copying Anathema.

“Newt,” said Anathema, “you read the incantation for summoning Metatron. I think Enochian is easier to pronounce than Infernal.  I’ll read the one for Beelzebub.”

“You’re trying to…summon us?” said the Metatron, astonished.

“We are already right here,” said Beelzebub, sounding equally lost.

Anathema drew at lightning speed, and a reproduction of the circles she had drawn on her living room floor to summon Crowley and Aziraphale were appearing under her hands at an incredible rate.  She had less room, of course, since she was confined to the inner ring of the protection circle, and she had to fit two of them, so they were much smaller.

“Newt, get the candles.  Crowley, Aziraphale, back out to the edge to give me more room to draw.  Be careful not to smudge the lines.”

Newt rummaged in the knapsack and started getting out red and black candles while Anathema started chalking a second circle.  Aziraphale and Crowley tiptoed out and away, unhappily standing near Beelzebub and Metatron.

“Crowley, Aziraphale, when the black candles go out, smudge the outer rim of the protection circle,” said Anathema, finishing the inscriptions on the second circle.  “The _second_ they go out.”

“Won’t that destroy the effect?” said Crowley with some alarm.

“Trust me.”

Beelzebub bent down to sneer in Crowley’s face wordlessly.  Crowley leaned back.  “Uh, Anathema…”

Anathema took the remaining candles from Newt and arranged them tediously around the two circles.  Then, she gave Newt the notes to read off of and stood at the head of her circle, clutching Beelzebub’s handful of feathers.

“You know,” said Beelzebub, “if you wanted uzz to come into your zircle, you could zimply let uz in.”

“Yes,” said the Metatron.  “I don’t see what you hope to accomplish.”

“Now, Newt,” said Anathema.  “Don’t let them distract you.”

Newt started reading his.  Anathema waited a few seconds, then altered her pacing to ensure they would both finish at the same time.

Metatron and Beelzebub watched in an amused way, like watching a toddler build a house out of plastic bricks:  thinking it was interesting, and perhaps important to the one carrying it out, but not accomplishing much.

Anathema and Newt finished at the same time, and then said, in unison:

“I command you to come to me, over whatever distance, regardless of circumstance.”

The black candles flickered out.

Aziraphale and Crowley stomped on the chalk lines, smearing them, while simultaneously covering their eyes out of sheer terror.

Beelzebub reached out to grab Crowley as soon as the supernatural wall between them fell, but then the red candles flickered on.  Beelzebub and Metatron jumped the few meters of space to appear in the two small circles.  Anathema and Newt backed away, out of grabbing distance.

Beelzebub still had a hand reached out, and he stumbled, hitting the edge of the restricting inner circle of the summoning charm and stumbling back. “Wh—”

The two circles only had two or three feet of diameter in which to stand. Metatron tried to spread his wings, but couldn’t spread them past the inner circle either.  “What is the meaning of this?”

Panting, Anathema walked over to where Aziraphale and Crowley were standing, dragging the knapsack out of reach.  “The summoning circle has a binding feature,” Anathema explained breathlessly.  “Whatever is summoned, no matter how powerful, can’t leave until someone outside the circle destroys it.”

Beelzebub’s face contorted into anger, and he started turning around in place, as though looking for an exit.  “That is _abzzurd_.”

“This is highly improper,” said the Metatron.  “I demand you release us at once.”

Crowley exploded into laughter, collapsing doubled over, howling.  Aziraphale’s face turned red as he suppressed an outburst.

Newt threw his arms around Anathema nuzzling her.  “Didn’t I tell you?  Didn’t I say you were the smartest?”

Beelzebub was still agitatedly moving the full length the circle allowed, smacking the invisible barrier that kept him in.  “Thiz iz foolizzh,” he fumed.

“Surely you must realise that this is not a permanent solution?” said the Metatron.  “We can’t be trapped in here forever.  Our subordinates will come looking for us and free us, or the rain will wash the chalk away.  We’ll get free eventually.  We’ll just find you again.”

Anathema planted her feet and put her fists on her hips.  “No, you won’t.  You’re going to leave all four of us alone.”

“And who are you, that you intend to give us commands?” snapped the Metatron. “You have a rather high opinion of yourself, don’t you?  Why can’t you just be cowed like a normal mortal?”

A dog could be heard barking elsewhere in the park, getting closer.

Anathema spread her hands to point at Aziraphale and Crowley.  “These two aren’t yours.  They belong to Earth now.”

“On whozze authority?” Beelzebub demanded.

“On mine,” said a voice from behind them.

Anathema turned around to see a twenty-something with flowing blond hair pull up on a bike, the tires screeching in the dirt, a mutt wagging its tail and bouncing about at his heels.  Three other young adults, likewise on bikes, appeared a moment later behind him.

“Adam Young?” said Metatron.

“Young mazter,” said Beelzebub, now sounding considerably less sure of himself.

Adam dismounted his bike, letting it fall over into the dirt.  Dog dashed forwards and crouched, growling at Metatron and Beelzebub very bravely.*  Adam strode forward and positioned himself between the two figures in the circles and Anathema.

*but safely out of their reach

Adam put his hands in his pockets. Metatron and Beelzebub didn’t say anything, and appeared to be sweating.

“You’ll leave them alone now,” Adam said to break the silence.  There was no threat attached to it.  It was a simple statement.

Agitated, Beelzebub played with the hilt of his sword despite having no way to use it.  “I really do not know what your father will zzzay about thiz.”

Adam scoffed.  “Don’t you remember what happened the last time we were together like this?  Do you still think I’m afraid of my father?  You can’t manipulate me by running off to tell Daddy.”

“Our Lord Zzatan is your Daddy, not mine.”

Adam raised an eyebrow. Beelzebub flushed furiously.

“You can’t just do whatever you want,” Metatron raged.  “This is going too far!”

“I can do whatever I like until someone stops me.  Which Satan hasn’t been able to, and God seemingly hasn’t seem fit to intervene, hm? So who’s going to stop me?  You?”

Metatron’s mouth worked to try and form a coherent protest, but ended up just expressing his anger wordlessly.

“Now let me ask you a question,” said Adam.  “Do your superiors—or coworkers—or what have you—know that the two of you are working together?”

Beelzebub squirmed.  “I fail to zee how that iz rele—”

“Do you think they’d be happy if they found out about it?”

Metatron gasped indignantly. “Don’t you dare.”

Adam shrugged.  “I’m just saying.   _I’m_ telling you off right now, and Satan and God might be pissed at you if they found out about you two.  Do you _really_ want all three of the most powerful beings in the universe pissed off at you?”

“No, I zuppose not,” muttered Beelzebub.  “But I _really_ do not know what your father will zzay about thiz.”

“But he’s not going to find out, is he?  Because nobody _told_ either of you to punish these two.  You just decided to because they embarrassed you.  And if either of you say anything to anyone, someone will come looking to investigate, probably.  And when they do, they’ll probably get an earful about how close Beelzebub and Metatron seem to be these days.  One could even call it conspiring with the enemy.”

They both flared with anger, waving their arms and talking over each other, but none of the objections they threw at the wall stuck.

Adam cut them off with a wave. “You two are real pieces of work, aren’t you?”  He looked at Beelzebub.  “You’re just rotten to the core.  And you.” He turned to Metatron.  “Looking to take it out on someone?  Misery loves company, is that it, Enoch?”

“D-do not call me that!” said Metatron, trying flare his wings to appear larger, but they caught on the side of the binding sigil.

Adam stood there contemplating them both with his hands in his pockets.  Then, he said, “I’m going to let you out of these circles, and when I do, the two of you are going to turn around and go straight back to Heaven and Hell, and not mention this to anyone, and you’ll leave Aziraphale and Crowley alone forever, and you won’t bother Newt and Anathema.  Got it?”

Beelzebub and Metatron both nodded miserably.

Adam stepped forwards and smeared the chalk lines.  Metatron disappeared instantly.  Beelzebub hung around for a second longer to say, “You’ll pay for this.”

“Yeah, well, you can bill me,” said Adam.

Then Beelzebub was gone.

Adam turned back to the others with a broad smile.  “Sorry I’m a bit late.  Originally I was going to get here even later, but I teleported a little so I could jump in and say that line with perfect timing.   Pretty dramatic, right?”

“Er, yeah, I suppose,” said Anathema.  “Thanks for coming.”

Aziraphale and Crowley had scooted a little further behind Anathema.  “You aren’t—er—mad at us?” said Crowley.  “It sounded like you thought Earth was better off without us last time we spoke.”

Adam sighed in exasperation. “I also told you two not to worry, didn’t I?  I guess that part didn’t stick?”

Aziraphale and Crowley inched back out.

“I’m sorry,” said Adam.  “I should have kept a closer eye on things. I thought it would be better if we all just went our separate ways and forgot, but I can see now what kind of grief that’s caused.  I…didn't realise anything was wrong.”  He motioned Aziraphale and Crowley forwards, and they stepped up hesitantly.  “I _did_ say I thought Earth would be better without Heaven and Hell meddling in things, but you two aren’t really Heaven and Hell, now, are you?”

They both flushed.

“Here,” said Adam, and he motioned to one of the young adults behind him.  “Brian’s made something for you.”

“I’m taking a graphic design class,” said Brian, stepping forward and brandishing two designs of something on small badges.

“He’s taking a graphic design class,” said Adam.

Brian stepped forwards and pinned them on Aziraphale’s and Crowley’s shoulders.  They both looked down to see a small handmade pin that said _Honourary Human!_

“Er,” said Crowley.

“There you go!” said Adam, beaming, as though he had just bestowed a great honour upon them.  

“Thanks?” said Aziraphale.

“You have to be honourary humans because only humans can join the Them,” said Adam.  “Except for Dog, of course.  But that doesn’t count.  Humans and dogs, I suppose.”

Dog barked.

“Join the Them?” echoed Crowley.

“Yeah!” said Adam, spreading his hands out to the Them behind him.  “You two and Anathema and Newt!”

“You’re inducting us into your gang?” Newt exclaimed.

Adam shrugged.  “Don’t know if I’d call it a _gang_.  S’not really a _gang_ anymore.  Now it’s more of a _club._ ”

“Brian does the graphic design,” said Pepper.

“I’m taking a class.”

“He’s taking a class,” said Adam.

“I’m still working on the membership pins,” said Brian.  “The honourary human pins seemed more important, on account of you needed them to join in the first place.”

“Right,” said Adam, as though it all made perfect sense.

They all just stood there for a moment.  Crowley’s face gradually split into a huge smile, and he started laughing.  Aziraphale shot Crowley a dirty look and stepped forwards.  “Thank you, Adam.”

“Oh, of course,” said Adam, shaking his hand.  “Seems the least I could do.  Sorry I didn’t step in earlier.  Er…” He rubbed the back of his head. “Haven’t checked in with you guys in a while.  I got caught up in schoolwork, and I was so busy, what with my double major and all, and I’m the treasurer for the GSA, and every Saturday’s booked up with volunteer work, and the internship, and that all rubbish…”

Anathema smiled.  “We understand, Adam.”

“Great!” said Adam, perking up. “Well, I wanted to give you invitations to my birthday party tomorrow!”

“Oh!” said Anathema as Adam pulled out a pair of blue envelopes.

He handed one to Aziraphale and one to Anathema.  “Hope to see you there!  I’m here on break until Tuesday, so if you can’t make it, we should make some other plans before then!”

“Oh, you’re leaving?” said Anathema as Adam clambered back onto his bike.

“Yup, got lots of things to do,” said Adam.  “Just wanted to stop by to fend off the forces of evil before meeting my folks for brunch.”

“Okay,” said Anathema, then raising her voice after him as he moved off:  “Thanks again!”

Wensleydale’s voice could be faintly heard exclaiming, “Cor, look, that duck’s got babies!” in the distance as they retreated.  And the squadron of heroic kids on bikes disappeared just as suddenly as they had appeared, peddling over the hill and out of sight.

Anathema turned back to Aziraphale and Crowley.  “There, see? Nothing to worry about.”

She was knocked over by the force of both of them rushing over to hug her at once.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN:  by the way......you all should go ask nemeankitten what Beelzebub looks like with his mask off.  Nemeankitten has Headcanons about Beelzebub and Metatron and if you ask nicely maybe he’ll tell you about them.  You should go ask http://nemeankitten.tumblr.com/ask  You should especially ask him to show you what Beelzebub looks like with his mask off.  But only if you’re not squicked by body horror.


	7. Memories, Newly Made

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On tumblr at http://not-a-space-alien.tumblr.com/post/171470967860/earth-helps-back-part-7-memories-newly-made

 

Adam’s family still lived in Tadfield, it turned out.  Anathema hadn’t been able to find his old house because he had cloaked it in the same occult protective cloak that he himself was wrapped in, which kept anything supernatural from finding it uninvited—including witches.

Now Anathema had an invitation, however.

Newt chauffeured himself and Anathema to Tadfield in the Wasabi.  Adam was wearing a conical party hat when he answered the door.  He breathlessly explained that his folks were out of the house for the evening on some business or another, and they had it all to themselves to party it up until tomorrow morning.  He waggled his eyebrows as he said this, and hinted that there would be loud music, plenty of alcohol, and drunken shenanigans.

Despite the tall promises, when he showed them into the living room, it contained only the other three members of the Them and a bowl of punch.

“We brought pot roast to liven things up!” said Anathema, holding up her slow cooker.

“And gifts!” said Newt, rattling the packages in his hand.

“Great!” said Adam, beaming. “Where are Aziraphale and Crowley?”

“They, ah,” said Newt, lowering his voice.  “They split yesterday.  Aziraphale said he wanted to go back to his bookshop and check that his books were all right, and Crowley said he should see if any of his plants were still alive.”

“I think they just wanted some time alone,” said Anathema, hefting the crockpot onto the table.  “We offered them a ride, but they turned it down. They both said they were coming, though.”

“All right,” said Adam, taking the gifts.

Anathema had a gift to set up upstairs, and Adam let her do that unhindered.  She came back down to join the game of Cards Against humanity the Them were already engaged in.  Everyone grew slightly more worried as time wore on and nobody else showed up.

“They know how to get here, right?” whispered Newt to Anathema.  “The invitation had directions and everything.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time they had trouble finding the place,” Anathema answered him.  “Oooh, I do hope they come.  Now I’m properly worried.”

The doorbell rang.  Adam leapt to answer it, to reveal Aziraphale standing in the door holding a bottle of wine with a ribbon on it.

Adam pounced on him to claim a hug before he could protest, and when he withdrew, the angel said, “Ahm, I’m afraid I don’t quite remember what sorts constitute _good_ wine, but seeing as how you’re of legal age…”

“This looks great!” said Adam, taking the bottle.  “Thanks!”

He sat down to join them. Anathema was suddenly self-conscious about playing such a vulgar game with an angel.  “Hey, Newt,” she diverted, “hand me Aziraphale’s gift.”

Newt retrieved the package, which was suspiciously book-shaped.  Anathema handed it to Aziraphale.  “I know it’s Adam’s birthday and not yours, but Newt and I got you something anyway.”

Aziraphale opened it carefully, eyes sparkling.  “Why, it’s a book,” he said, sounding so sincere and so overcome with emotion that he seemed on the verge of melting.

“Yeah!” said Anathema.

Aziraphale teared up, holding the book close to his chest.  He hadn’t even read the title.

“Er, do you like that author?” said Newt.

Aziraphale didn’t respond, looking like he didn’t care in the slightest about the actual contents of the book.

Anathema patted his hand. “Well, enjoy it.”

“Thank you,” he said.

“Didn’t Crowley come with you?” said Adam.

Aziraphale shook his head. “I took a cab over.”

“Oh.”

Anathema invited him to sit at the table with them.  He did so, and only put his new book down to check his phone when it chirped.

He flipped it open and said _Oh_ in a disappointed way.

“What is it?” said Anathema.

He turned the phone so she could read it.

_From:  Crowley_

_I’m not coming_

* * *

Newt waited in the car, saying that he didn’t trust the car not to get towed, and parking was a bitch in Mayfair, and any other number of excuses to conceal the fact that he was afraid of talking to Crowley in case he was upset with him in some way.

So Anathema was alone when she walked up to the gates of the building that contained Crowley’s flat. She buzzed the intercom.

“Top floor flat,” said a voice.

“Crowley, it’s me,” she said into the receiver.  “Can I come up?”

The intercom was silent.

“Please?”

The gate buzzed open.

Normally she would have taken the time to admire the architecture—Crowley had obviously picked one of the most expensive and luxurious apartment buildings he could find—but it was dark and Anathema was distracted, so she just hurried into the elevator and made her way to the top of the building.

“Crowley?” she said, knocking on the door.  “It’s Anathema.  Please unlock the door.”

She was afraid it wouldn’t open, but a minute later the door clicked of its own accord, and she cracked it open.  “Crowley?”

The flat was dark inside. Anathema stepped in and shut the door behind her, fumbling for a light switch.  “Crowley?  Where are you, honey?”

A yellow eye opened in the darkness on the other side of the room, predatory pupil dilated on her.

Anathema finally found the switch and flicked the light on, washing the room with harsh white light and revealing that Crowley was sitting on the floor against the opposite wall. Dry pots with dead plants were scattered around him, including one in his lap, and he was clutching a bottle of wine, which looked mostly empty.  His eyes were puffy and tinged with red—or rather, eye, because the right one was still covered with a bandage.

Anathema walked over and crouched down beside him.  He refused to look at her.

“You know,” said Anathema, taking the dead plant off his lap and moving it to the side, “Aziraphale brought wine to share with the entire party.  Seems awfully selfish of you to get an entire bottle for yourself.”

Crowley took another swig from the wine bottle.

“You said you were coming.  What made you change your mind?”

Crowley looked at her blearily. “Because I realised that no mortal would ever have a good reason to want me around.”

He still had the “honourary human” pin on his shoulder, and Anathema took it off and held it in front of his face.

Crowley took another swig of alcohol.

“They gave you an invitation,” said Anathema.  “Clearly they want you there.”

“Like a piece of paper means anything,” Crowley snapped.

Anathema sighed and sat next to him, head against the wall.  “All right. So clearly this isn’t about Them. What’s it about?”

Crowley looked almost shame-faced.

“I won’t tell anyone else.”

“I wish I was as great as Aziraphale seems to think I am.  I’m garbage. Somehow, Aziraphale liking me just makes me feel worse about it.”

“Crowley, you’re not—”

“I wish I was someone worthy of his love.  I almost wish none of you would waste your time on me.”

“Crowley,” said Anathema. “Come on.  You _are_ worth it.  Why would you think otherwise?”

“Why do you care?” said Crowley.  “I mean it.  Why do you care about me?  Why did you put so much effort into helping us?”

“Haven’t I made it clear?”

“We’ve never done anything for you.  We barely know each other.  And you gave us everything.”

“You cared about my planet when no one else in Heaven _or_ Hell would.  It doesn’t seem too much to ask that someone care about you in return.”

Crowley drew his knees up to his chest and leaned his face into them.  Anathema could swear she heard him suppress a sob.

“Crowley, you and Aziraphale are my _friends._  That is…if you’ll let me be your friend.  That was the whole point of all of this.”

Crowley lifted his gaze to the opposite wall.  Then, he picked the wine bottle and started downing it again.

“What’s really bothering you?”

Crowley swirled the wine bottle. “When you found me at the club that night, I had been trying to plan some way to escape and help Aziraphale for weeks.  Not just because I missed Aziraphale, but because the guilt of what I was doing was eating away at me.  I decided that night it was either find some way out, or get my hands on some holy water somehow and end it all.  And the escape plan wasn’t working out so well.”

He downed the rest of the bottle.

“Okay,” said Anathema.  “But you’re out of that now, Crowley.  You don’t have to worry about that.”

“Do you know how many divorces I caused?” said Crowley.  “At that club alone.  I was there every Friday night working.  Take a guess. How many divorces?”

“Crowley—”

“A hundred and thirty two. I ruined a hundred and thirty two marriages.  Two-hundred and sixty four people whose lives I ruined.”  He let out a harsh laugh.  “The quota was only a hundred, but I’m just that much of an overachiever.”

The wine bottle magically started refilling itself.  Anathema tried to take it out of his hand.

“What kind of human in their right mind would want my company?” said Crowley, wrestling to keep the wine bottle.  “Who would _actually_ like me, if they knew the whole truth, all the terrible things I’ve done?”

Anathema gave up trying to get the wine bottle off him.  “Crowley—”

“I did more demonic work in these few years after Beelzebub ‘set me straight’ than I have in my entire life up to this point.  Hastur got to decide what I did, and he always gave me the assignments he knew were my least favourite,” said Crowley.  He took three huge gulps of alcohol before continuing, “Take a guess at how many souls I got damned to Hell.  Guess.  Keeping in mind I’m so much of an overachiever.”

“Crowley, don’t do this to yourself.  You didn’t have a choice.”

“I didn’t have a choice!” crowed Crowley, raising the wine bottle up and sloshing alcohol all over himself. “That’s the rallying cry of horrible people everywhere, isn’t it?  No choice! They left us no choice!  I’m sure all the people I hurt would be immensely consoled by the fact that their tormenter chose to save his own arse.”

“That can’t be helped now.”

“I’m a creature designed explicitly for nothing but causing pain,” wept Crowley, “and you have the nerve to tell me there are humans who would want my company.”

Anathema gripped his hand very tightly and knelt in front of him.  With her other hand, she held up one of the withered potted plants.  “Look at this, Crowley.  What is it?”

“It’s a dead plant,” he growled.

“It was something _you_ grew.  It was alive and vibrant because of you.  It only died because someone took you away from it.  Now tell me.  Which do you think is the _real_ you?  Those horrible things you did because someone else made you?”  She put the plant down and brushed her fingers against the bandage on the side of his head.  “Or the gentleness that they had to beat out of you?”

“Yes, I’m sure everyone is _so_ comforted by the idea that the guy who fucked them over is really a nice guy on the inside, once you get to know him. You know, _deep down._ ”

“You don’t think what’s on the inside matters?”

“I think it only matters as far as it affects your interactions with others.”

Anathema patted his hand. “Well, then, maybe it _will_ now that you can express who you are.  Deep down.”

Crowley rolled the wine bottle in his hand.

Anathema sat back and let out a sigh.  She reached over and took the wine bottle to take a swig from it, then passed it back.

“This whole experience was what it took to make me realise,” said Crowley, sounding heavy-hearted, “that the demons who’re sadists and enjoy making others miserable probably became that way as a self-defense mechanism.  I wouldn’t be here, caught red-handed crying over a damn potted plant, if I were more like Beelzebub.”

Anathema crunched some dead leaves with her fingers.  “Can’t you just use a miracle to bring them back to life?”

“A miracle?  That’s not the point.  The point of having a plant isn’t _having a plant._  It’s _growing_ a plant.  Some of them I had been growing since the eighties.  It wouldn’t be the same.  They ruined it.  They ruined everything.”

“It’s all right now,” said Anathema soothingly.  “You can start over, you know.  It’s not too late.”

“It won’t be the same.  Nothing will.  They ruined my life.”

“You’re alive.  You’re here.  You have Aziraphale.  Those are all the seeds you need, Crowley.”

“All the seeds, huh?” Crowley lifted the wine bottle and looked at her through it, yellow eye distorted.  “It never gets any easier, you know.”

“What doesn’t?”

“Watching humans like you die. Worrying about Aziraphale.  Being tortured.  Take your pick.  You’d think after six-thousand years, everything would be old hat, but no.”  He drunk from the wine bottle until there was only a mouthful left.  “Not even a stupid party for a teenager.”

“He’s not a teenager, you know.”

Crowley sighed.

Anathema leaned over.  “What did you think Heaven was like?  You thought it was boring, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you think Earth was the same way before the fall of man?”

“Do I think it was boring? I guess.”

“So what you’re saying is, without you in the world, it’d be pretty boring, right?  Imagine if it was just Aziraphale, if he had free rein.”

Crowley grimaced.  He was imagining a dreadful, tartan-filled world.

“So what do you think the _party_ is like with just Aziraphale?”

Crowley looked contemplatively at the opposite wall, then slowly bottoms-upped the bottle of wine to finish it, then stood up.  “Suppose I’ve got to save everyone, then.”

Anathema watched as he disappeared into the loo and heard him splashing water on his face.  When he came back out, he was dressed in a crisp new suit.  “All right.  Let’s go.”

* * *

Anathema ran out to get back into Newt’s car, warning him that he should get out of the road because Crowley would be along at any moment.  Newt was in the middle of asking why Anathema seemed so alarmed by the prospect when he saw the headlights rapidly approaching in his rear view mirror, accompanied by the distinct rumbling growl of an antique engine accelerating much faster than it was designed to.

Newt pulled off onto the shoulder in time to see the Bentley tear past him at easily three times the speed limit.  Its rear lights disappeared into the night in a matter of seconds.

They didn’t catch up to Crowley until about three-quarters of the way to Tadfield, where they spotted him sitting on the side of the road.  When they pulled beside him with the window rolled down, he sheepishly admitted that he didn’t remember exactly where he was going.

“You made it!” Aziraphale gasped with evident delight when Crowley threw the door open.

“’Course I made it,” Crowley said, plopping down onto the couch and crossing his feet on the ottoman.  “I’m a delight, and it would be cruel to deprive you all of my presence.”

Aziraphale smiled and rubbed Crowley’s arm.

Newt came into the door, breathlessly trying to catch up.  “Crowley!  We have a gift for you too!  We’ve been waiting to give it to you until you got here.”

“For me?”  said Crowley.  “But it’s Adam’s birthday.”

Adam put his arm around Crowley’s shoulders while simultaneously affixing a conical party hat in his dark hair.  “Don’t want anyone to feel left out.”

Newt went over to the pile of gifts and fished one out, a small pot with a stem of green in it. “Tah-dah!’ he said, presenting it to Crowley.  

Crowley took the gift, holding it in his hands delicately.  “Is this…”

“I’ve already forgotten what kind it is,” said Newt apologetically, rubbing the back of his head.  “Sorry.”

“It’s an aloe plant,” said Crowley instantly.

“Oh!  Great for burns then,” said Newt, then trailed off, cringing, trying to decide if it would make it better or worse to continue on _I didn’t mean that in the way of the “fires of Hell” thing._ Eventually he settled on, “Do you like it?”

Crowley rotated the small pot in his hand, horrified to find he was struggling not to let his eyes water. “It’s…it’s fine.  Thank you.”

“Have you ever played Cards Against Humanity?” said Aziraphale, tugging on his sleeve.  “It’s delightful.”

Crowley wiped his eyes quickly and put on a smirk.  “Played it?” He snapped his fingers to make an oblong black box appear on the table.  “I have the expansion pack!”

The table was not big enough for all of them, so they sat cross-legged in a circle on the floor, comfortably squished in with each other.  The punch bowl found itself more and more obliged to be filled with increasingly alcoholic beverages as the night wore on.  Spirits rose the further into the game they got.  Pepper was cleaning up, a solid four cards in the lead, but Anathema was not far from catching up.

When someone played the card _Flying Sex Snakes_ , Crowley broke into huge laughs and nudged Aziraphale.  “Hey, that reminds me of that time in South America.  Remember, back in…”

He trailed off as Aziraphale embarrassedly turned his head to the side, sipping punch.

“Sorry,” said Crowley, shuffling his cards, flustered.  “I…I forgot.”

“No, _I_ did,” said Aziraphale.  “I suppose that’s the problem.”

Anathema reached across the table and put her hand on Aziraphale’s.  “I think it’s time.  I have one more gift for you.”

Anathema bade everyone to keep playing without them and led Aziraphale up the stairs.  The boisterous chatter from the party faded as Anathema took him into a bedroom.

The floor had been covered with chalk marks and candles and incense.  Anathema picked her way across the room and stood in the center.  “I’ve prepared a spell for you.”

“For me?” said Aziraphale.  “Whatever for?”

“For regaining memories, lost or never held.  I just need one of your feathers.”

Aziraphale’s face lit up.  He eased his wings into the physical plane and extended one towards her.  “Take whatever you need.”

Anathema plucked one out, then set it in his hand.  “Burn this in the black candle over there, then watch it burn.”

Aziraphale knelt and held the feather over the candle.  It went up with the smell of burning hair.  He plopped it down in the circle and stared it into as it burned.

Aziraphale’s eyes widened, and he went rigid.

“Shocking, isn’t it?  A lot to take in at once.”

“I…I…I—I…”

“Do you remember?”

Aziraphale was still on his hands and knees, and his face dropped towards the floor.  Anathema noted a tear drip onto the chalk lines.  “Yes,” he said softly.  “Yes, I remember.  I remember everything.”

“Good!” said Anathema cheerily. “I knew it would be—Oh!”

This last part came as Aziraphale stood and engulfed her in a hug.  “Thank you,” he whispered into her ear.  “Thank you so much.  I don’t know how I can ever repay you for what you’ve done for us.   _Thank you_.”

“Er…How about some feathers?”

Aziraphale drew back and looked at her.

“For spellcasting?” said Anathema.

Aziraphale laughed.  “Take as many as you want.”

They came back down the stairs, and Aziraphale’s heart swelled when he looked at Crowley, fully and in a way he hadn’t in years.  “Crowley?”

“Angel!” said Crowley, waving him down.  “Come on!  It’s your turn to judge!”

Aziraphale came to sit in the circle, staring at Crowley with delight, as though just meeting him for the first time.

“It’s your turn,” Crowley repeated.

Aziraphale leaned forwards and put his lips on Crowley’s forehead, caressing him.  Crowley blushed furiously.

“Hello, my dear,” said Aziraphale, voice warbling.  “It’s so good to see you again.”

Crowley smiled faintly.  “Everything all right?  You look like you’re going to cry.”

Aziraphale drew back, then his attention caught on the bandages on Crowley’s face.  He brushed his fingers against them.

“Something wrong?” said Crowley.

Aziraphale slid his finger under the bandage and pulled it off the demon’s face.  A second perfectly round, perfectly yellow eye stared back at him.

Crowley blinked.  “Oh!  Oh-ho, would you look at that?  I hadn’t even noticed.”

Aziraphale took the bloodied bandages off and set them to the side, smiling at Crowley.  Crowley smiled back.

Brian had been in the dining room somewhere, and he came back in now, clapping to get everyone’s attention.  He had a felt bag in his hand.  “Everyone’s back now?  Then all right, everyone, I had to work all night for it, but I thought for an occasion such as this, I should put my graphic design skills to use.”

“He’s taking a class,” Adam whispered to Anathema.

Brian dumped the bag onto the table, and an array of pins spilled out.  “There’s one for each of us!” he said.  “Except Dog. I don’t know how he’d wear a pin. Sorry, Dog.”

Dog woofed.

Anathema picked up one of the pins.  It was a little bronze thing that just said _THEM!_ in bubble letters.

“They’re the Them membership badges,” said Brian, preening.  “They prove that everyone here is a real, genuine member of the Them.”

Anathema smiled.  “Thanks, Brian.  These are great.”

Newt, who seemed to simply love being part of clubs, was already pinning his onto his jacket, which still bore membership pins and medals from the Witchfinder Army.  Anathema affixed hers to her sweater.  Aziraphale and Crowley pinned theirs on each other’s lapels. The four original members of the Them distributed the pins among themselves with much aplomb, as though they had all achieved something very grand and important, congratulating themselves.

While Newt was at his jacket, he slipped his hand into the pocket thereof and felt it brush against a velvet box.

“A-All right, everyone,” said Newt, sounding inordinately nervous to everyone else in the room.  “Since the game is stopped and all, I want to say something too.”

Everyone looked at him expectantly.  He stood frozen with his hand in his jacket.

“Uh, what is it, Newt?” said Anathema.

Newt shook himself and took the ring box out of his jacket pocket, slipping it into his trouser pocket too quickly for anyone else to see it, or at least he hoped.  “Anathema,” he said, walking back over and taking her hands. “These past few years we’ve been living together have been the happiest of my life.  You’re the most amazing person I’ve ever met, and I—I hope that I can be by your side and support you through whatever wacky and weird stuff life decides to hand you f-for many years to come.”

Anathema’s face grew disbelieving as he spoke.

Newt slipped the box out of his pocket. “And—and I guess what I’m trying to say is this.  Anathema Device…”  He opened it and showed her the ring. “Will you do me the incredible honour of marrying me?”

Anathema gave a squeal and wrapped her arms around him, hugging him tightly.  Everyone in the room cheered and clapped.

“Is—Is that a yes?” said Newt, bewildered.  “I—I forgot to get down on one knee!  I can’t believe I—”

Anathema drew back, smiling at him warmly.  “Of course it’s a yes,” said Anathema.  “And don’t worry about your knee.  I don’t want your knee.  I want your love and support.”

Newt smiled through tears. “You’ve already got that.”

She pulled him in for a kiss, to a second round of cheers.

Aziraphale and Crowley sat on the couch in the background as the Them rushed in to crowd around Newt and Anathema, eager to learn about how engagement worked.  Crowley swirled his cup of punch.

“I remember everything, Crowley,” said Aziraphale.

Crowley looked up at him sharply. “You do?”

Aziraphale smiled.  “A gift from Anathema.”

Crowley’s hand snaked over and laid on Aziraphale’s.  Aziraphale took it the rest of the way and lifted it to his lips.  Crowley gulped down more punch.

“I’m very glad we can be here together.”

“Me too.”

“I want to be with you forever.  Even if I hadn’t recovered my memories, I would still want to spend forever with you, making new ones.”

Crowley leaned over, resting his head on Aziraphale’s shoulder.  “Then how fortunate we are that you don’t have to start from scratch, eh, angel?”

“From scratch?”

“Making new memories!  We’d have to do quite a lot to catch up!”  He ran out of punch to sip.  

Aziraphale watched their group of new friends settle back around the game.  “And in terms of making new memories…  This seems like as good of a place to start as any, doesn’t it?”

“Yes,” said Crowley, looking around at everyone in the room who cared about him, filled with warmth. “Yes, I suppose it is.”

『 THE END 』 

* * *

_Hope you enjoyed! : >  Thought I would post a link to my tip jar, no pressure though ^_^  <https://ko-fi.com/A0361U7E> _

_Also, I was thinking about opening writing commissions :D  Let me know if that’s something you’d be interested in OK? :)  Thanks again for reading I hope you enjoyed.  Please don’t forget to show[@nemeankitten](https://tmblr.co/mF7nZOEI0y5gs670H6Nljxg) some appreciation for this fic too_


	8. Epilogue:  Two Out of Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> on tumblr at http://not-a-space-alien.tumblr.com/post/171471910160/earth-helps-back-epilogue-two-out-of-three

 

Great, now Anathema was _conflicted._

She stormily swept up the remains of the memory spell she had just completed, bitterly not looking at Adam, who had provided the feathers to use this time around.

“Well?” said Adam.

“You’re right,” said Anathema. “You’re right, and I don’t like it one bit.”

“So you’ll help me, then?”

Anathema unhappily started wiping the chalk circle away so that she could draw up a summoning spell again. “I can’t really say no, can I?”

* * *

Anathema drew the circle small again on purpose, because although she had agreed to try and help the Metatron, she still thought he was a pompous jerk who liked to flare out his wings to look bigger, and who deserved to get knocked down a peg.

Adam watched with his hands in his pockets as Anathema took another feather, said the incantation, and summoned Metatron.

The Metatron appeared in the circle facing away from her.  He was saying something that quickly died in his throat, as though Anathema had pulled him straight out of a conversation with someone else.

He spun around wildly until he caught sight of Anathema and Adam, at which point he crossed his arms sourly. “Oh, it’s you two again.  What do you want?”

“We want to help you, Enoch,” said Anathema.

The Metatron went rigid with indignation.  “ _Do not call me that._ ”

“Does it hurt?” said Adam. “To be reminded of who you were before.”

“Don’t be absurd,” Metatron sneered.  “It has nothing to do with that.  It is merely that that has not been my name for thousands of years.  It’s simply improper.”

“Mm-hmm.”  Adam regained his seat in the easy chair.  “You don’t have to put on a façade with us.  Who are we going to tell?”

“Tell what?” said Metatron.

“We want to help you,” said Anathema.  “You’re obviously miserable.”

“That’s an absurd thing to say,” Metatron chimed.

“But you are.”

“All servants of Heaven are perfectly content when they are in their utmost accord with the will of the Heavenly Father!” said Metatron.

“He hurts you, doesn’t He?” said Anathema.  “Sometimes He hurts you for no reason, and everyone acts like it’s right and proper, and you can’t figure out why.”

Metatron looked at Anathema as though she were a ghost, all hostility instantly gone.  “I…we…”

“Like when Elisha—”

“How do you know about that?” Metatron snapped, feathers ruffled, defenses back up.  “You have no business—”

“All that stuff you did to Aziraphale.  Making him lose his previous life, forgetting it, but leaving his memories that he used to be happier, and remembering that he used to be _someone else_ , but not remembering who…that’s exactly what happened to you, isn’t it?”

Metatron turned away so Anathema couldn’t see his face.  “I’m stronger than Aziraphale.”

“And you didn’t get a choice. You just got yanked from your human life and transformed into something else.”

“It was because I was so righteous and in accord with Heaven’s will,” said Metatron.  “A lowly human like yourself is probably just jealous.  You wish you could be granted the kind of power I have.”

“You don’t have any power at all,” said Adam.

Metatron turned back around, rage on his face.

“You’re just a puppet,” said Adam. “Stripped of all free will and put through unimaginable pain, the same way you two tried to do to Aziraphale and Crowley.”

“Let us help you, Metatron,” said Anathema.  “We’ll figure something out.”

Metatron’s eyes bounced between Anathema and Adam.  Then, his face lifted into a slight smile.  “You remind me of myself, Anathema.  Or, rather, what I _used_ to be.”

“What?” said Anathema.

“That tactical mind.  That invincible attitude.  That penchant for manipulation.”

Anathema furrowed her brow.

“Let me give you a piece of advice, little human:  People like us need to cut out what holds us back.  For me, I had to let go of Enoch.  For you, it should be cutting out those two rogues.  They’ll only get you into trouble.”

“We just saved them,” said Anathema stormily, “and you’re trying to convince me to abandon them.”

Metatron lifted his shoulders and let them drop.

“Metatron,” said Anathema, softer this time, “do you think you’re fooling us?”

Metatron pulled his veil down over his face.

“You’re obviously using this show to hide the fact that you’re in pain.”

Metatron didn’t respond.

“Let us help you,” Anathema repeated.  “It’s not too late for you.  I don’t know what we can do exactly, but we can come up with something.  You don’t need to live like this forever—”

“It wouldn’t have been forever if you would just stop meddling in the plans for Armageddon,” Metatron said hotly. “It would have ended by now!  You hateful creatures!”

“Metatron, please,” said Adam. “It doesn’t have to be this way.”

Metatron’s eyes burned into the two of them angrily.  Then, his face slackened.  “You’re wrong,” he said softly.  “It _is_ too late for me.”

“It’s never too late,” said Anathema.

“You’re both young and optimistic and foolish,” said Metatron, and one could have sworn his voice were thick with emotion.  “It’s too late for all of us.  Now, let me out, and I’ll be on my way, and we can never speak of this again.”

Anathema and Adam looked at each other.

“We can’t help him if he doesn’t want to be helped,” said Anathema.

Adam nodded grimly.

Anathema stepped forwards and put her foot on the chalk circle to smear it, then paused.  “You can come back to us if you change your mind.  It’s never too late to admit you need help.”

Metatron lifted his head.  “Try living a few thousand years and see if you still feel that way.”

Anathema grimaced and destroyed the line.  Metatron disappeared instantly.

Adam stood sadly.  “Thanks for trying, Anathema.  I feel better knowing we did _something_ at least.”

“Well, we can’t win every time, I suppose,” said Anathema.  “And…helping two out of three isn’t bad, I guess.”

* * *

_AN:  The context for this scene is based on[@nemeankitten](https://tmblr.co/mF7nZOEI0y5gs670H6Nljxg)‘s headcanons about metatron.  Basically, the book of Enoch states that Metatron was a human who had gone through a transformation into an angel.  It sounds very painful and in this ‘verse it was basically the equivalent of being lobotomized.  There is also an OT story about the prophet Elisha mistaking Metatron for a second God, and God giving Metatron 60 strokes “with fiery rods” to prove Metatron’s subservience, so that nobody could mistake them for a second god because of the fact that they could be punished on a whim.  This all paints a very grim picture of what Metatron’s life is like and might explain their behavior both in canon and in this fic!_

_She has a lot of very detailed hcs about metatron, you should ask about them :)<http://nemeankitten.tumblr.com/ask>_

 

 

Edit for an additional author’s note:  You can read the detailed explanation [here](http://not-a-space-alien.tumblr.com/post/171523820275/hi-everyone-recently-something-was-brought-to-my), however, I failed to properly credit some additional contributors to the ideas used in this fic.  I used versions of Beelzebub and Metatron that grew out of discussions we had in our discord server and I forgot to credit [@auroral-melody](https://tmblr.co/mfkk6Pc8kPhLy1j5kM5ssSw) , [](https://tmblr.co/mXxrURC-X-X26r_10sC_4pQ)[@aqueeraphale](https://tmblr.co/mXxrURC-X-X26r_10sC_4pQ) and  [@procrastinatingbookworm](https://tmblr.co/mqpuG2VwGI7MS5st_EF9lWQ) as well.  So please go show them some love as well!!


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